•THE-LAST-LADY 
•  OF-  MULBERRY  • 


HENRY-  WILTON  •  THOMAS 


•'•'•' 
**« 


The  Last  Lady  of  cMulberty 


Flowers  for  a  Neapolitan  of  the  Porto  ! 

(See  page  53.) 


The  Last  Lady 
of  Mulberry 


cA  Story  of  Italian  cN&w  York 
By  Henry  Wilton  Thomas 

Illustrated  by  Emit  Pollak 


York 

D.  c/lppleton  and  Company 
1900 


COPYRIGHT,  1900 
BY  HENRY  WILTON   THOMAS 


A II  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — A   GODDESS   SCORNED I 

II. — CASA  Di  BELLO 18 

III. — A   SPOT   OF   YELLOW   PAINT 37 

IV. — JUNO  THE  SUPERB 44 

V. — THE  FIRST  LADY 57 

VI. — CAROLINA  RESOLVES  TO  GO  COURTING        .        .  75 

VII. — A   FLUTTER   IN   THE   TOMATO    BANK      ...  82 

VIII. — JUNO   PERFORMS   A   MIRACLE             ....  94 

IX. — THE  PERPETUA  MEETS  A  BEAR   ....  102 
X. — BIRTH  OF  THE  LAST  LADY        .       .       .       .114 

XL — A   RACE   TO   THE   SWIFT 123 

XII. — THE   PEACE   PRESERVED 143 

XIII. — THE   PEACE    DISTURBED 153 

XIV. — YELLOW  BOOTS  AND  ORANGE  BLOSSOMS      .        .  172 

XV. — FAILURE  OF  BANCA  TOMATO      ....  186 

XVI. — THE  LAST  LADY  UNMASKED       ....  211 

XVII. — THE  FALCON  SAVES  THE  DOVE  ....  228 

XVIII. — AT   THE   ALTAR   OF   SAN   PATRIZIO         .            .           .  238 

XIX. — EVENTS  WAIT  UPON  THE  DANDELIONS        .        .  255 
V 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX. — A   HOUSE    DIVIDED 268 

XXI. — THE  FEAST   OF   SPRINGTIDE 278 

XXII. — CAROLINA  CONSTRUCTS  A  DRAMA        .        .        .    292 

XXIII. — A  PARTNERSHIP  IN  TEN-INCH   ST.    PETERS  .  .      308 

XXIV. — TWO   TROUBLESOME   WEDDING   GIFTS     .  .  .314 


VI 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING   PAGE 

Flowers  for  a  Neapolitan  of  the  Porto  !         Frontispiece 
Would  Genoa  be  the  same  when  his  Juno  and  Peacock 

should  be  there  ? 5 

Bertino's  arrival  at  Paradise  Park         ....  20 

The  bear-tamer's  wife IO9 

"A  broken  leg!     Dio  Santo!" Iir 

It  was  a  wild  thrust I7° 

Bridget  in  balia  array J^9 

Jack  Tar's  ignoble  end J96 

The  Last  Lady  as  Queen  of  the  Feast          .         .         .287 


Vll 


THE  LAST  LADY  OF  MULBERRY 


CHAPTER   I 

A    GODDESS    SCORNED 

ALL  Armando  knew  of  sculpture  he  had 
learned  from  his  uncle  Daniello,  a  mountain 
craftsman  who  never  chiselled  anything 
greater  than  a  ten-inch  Saint  Peter.  At 
night  in  the  tavern  on  the  craggy  height, 
with  a  flask  of  barbera  before  him,  the  old 
carver  would  talk  grandly  of  his  doings  in 
art,  while  his  comrades,  patient  of  the  oft- 
told  tale,  nodded  their  heads  in  listless  but 
loyal  accord.  They  all  knew  very  well  that 
it  was  young  Armando  who  did  most  of  the 
carving,  yet  they  cried  "  Bravo  ! "  for  old 
Danielle's  wine  was  good.  And  so  it  had 
been  for  a  long  time.  While  the  lad  chipped 

I 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

all  day  in  a  little  workshop  perched  beyond 
the  nether  cloud  shadows,  his  uncle  passed 
the  hours  in  Genoa,  where,  by  sharp  wits  and 
bland  tongue,  he  transmuted  the  marble  into 
silver. 

But  Armando  had  a  soul  that  looked  far 
above  the  gleaming  tonsures  of  ten-inch 
Saint  Peters.  Wherefore  he  was  unhappy. 
When  his  twentieth  birthday  dawned  it 
seemed  to  him  that  his  life  had  been  a  fail- 
ure. One  morning,  after  a  night  of  much 
barbera  and  noisy  gasconade,  old  Daniello 
did  not  wake  up,  and  two  days  after- 
ward they  laid  him  to  rest  in  the  slop- 
ing graveyard  in  the  gorge  by  the  olive-oil 
mill. 

Gloomily  Armando  weighed  the  situa- 
tion, standing  by  the  mullioned  window  of 
the  room  wherein  he  had  toiled  so  long  and 
ignobly.  Far  in  the  western  distance  he 
could  see  the  ships  that  seemed  to  glide 
with  full  sails  across  the  mountains.  The 
serene  midsummer  vapours,  pendulous  above 
the  Mediterranean,  were  visible,  but  the  sea 

2 


A  Goddess  Scorned 

upon  which  their  shadows  fell  and  lingered 
was  hidden  from  his  view  by  a  thicket  of 
silver  firs.  Southward  the  trees  stood  lower, 
and  over  their  tops,  where  tired  sea  gulls  cir- 
cled, he  gazed  sadly  toward  the  jumble  of 
masonry  that  is  Genoa. 

Miles  below  in  the  sun  glare  the  city  lay 
this  morning  as  Heine  found  it  decades  ago, 
like  the  bleached  skeleton  of  some  thrown- 
up  monster  of  the  deep.  And  a  monster  it 
was  in  the  sight  of  the  poor  lad  who  looked 
down  from  the  heights  of  Cardinali — but  a 
monster  that  he  would  conquer,  even  as 
Saint  George,  champion  of  Genoa,  had  con- 
quered the  dragon  in  ages  far  agone.  Yes, 
he  would  strike  off  for  evermore  the  chains 
that  fettered  him  to  ten-inch  Saint  Peters, 
and  mount  to  the  white  peaks  of  art !  In 
the  Apennine  hamlet  he  had  lived  all  his 
days,  and  never  heard  of  Balzac ;  but  he 
clinched  his  fist,  and,  with  eyes  set  upon  the 
cluster  of  chimney  pots  at  the  mountain's 
foot,  made  his  vow  : 

"In  this  room,  O  Genoa!  will  I  bring 
3 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

forth  a  marble  that  shall  make  you  do  me 
honour." 

Then  he  felt  uplifted — as  though  he  had 
burned  the  bridges  that  hung  between  his 
old  ignominy  and  the  straight  path  to  fame 
and  riches.  The  vow  was  still  fervid  and 
strong  within  him  when,  two  days  afterward, 
he  beheld  in  a  shop  window  of  Genoa  a 
photograph  of  Falguiere's  great  marble, 
Juno  and  the  Peacock.  Before  the  divine 
contours  of  Jupiter's  helpmeet  the  simple- 
hearted  graver  of  saintly  images  stood  en- 
chanted. Presently,  as  though  spoken  by  a 
keen,  mysterious  voice  from  the  upper  air, 
there  pierced  his  consciousness  the  word 
"Replica!"  Again  and  again  was  it  re- 
peated, each  time  with  a  new  insistence. 
Ah,  a  copy  of  this  in  marble !  Yes ;  with 
such  a  masterpiece  he  would  begin  his 
ascent  to  the  white  peaks.  He  bought  the 
photograph,  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  kept  it 
there  until  he  was  beyond  the  city's  bounds 
and  trudging  up  the  causeway  toward  Cardi- 
nali.  Now  and  then  he  took  out  the  pic- 

4 


Would  Genoa  be  the  same  when  his  Juno  and  Peacock 
should  be  there  ? 


A  Goddess  Scorned 

ture,  regarded  it  fondly,  and,  peering  back 
at  the  town,  asked  himself  if  Genoa  would 
look  the  same  when  his  Juno  and  the  Pea- 
cock should  be  there.  Would  the  soft  mur- 
mur of  that  drowsy  mass  have  the  same 
note?  Would  the  people  move  with  the 
same  pace,  eat,  sleep,  and  drink  as  they  had 
always  done  ?  He  was  inclined  to  think 
they  would  not. 

For  a  twelvemonth,  through  early  tides 
and  late  shifts,  he  modelled  and  chipped  :  in 
winter,  when  the  demoniac  mistral,  raging 
all  about  him,  shook  the  workshop  and 
snapped  the  boughs  of  the  cypresses ;  in 
summer,  when  the  ortolan  and  the  wood- 
thrush  cheered  him  with  their  song.  And 
the  little  group  of  neighbours,  from  whom 
he  guarded  his  great  artistic  secret,  marvelled 
that  no  more  Saint  Peters  came  forth  from 
their  time-honoured  birthplace. 

Only  two  persons  in  Cardinali  besides 
Armando  had  knowledge  of  the  momentous 
affair  that  was  going  forward.  One  was 
Bertino,  a  fair-haired  youth  of  the  sculptor's 

5 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

age,  who  busied  his  hands  by  day  plaiting 
Lombardian  straw  into  hats,  and  his  head 
by  night  dreaming  of  America  and  shower- 
ing cornucopias  of  gold.  He  was  Arman- 
do's bosom  friend.  The  other  confidant  was 
Bertino's  foster  sister  Marianna,  somewhat 
demure  for  a  mountain  lass,  and  subject  to 
thinking  spells.  Beauty  she  had,  notably 
on  feast  days,  when  she  walked  to  church 
with  a  large-rayed  comb  in  her  braided 
chestnut  waterfall,  a  gorgeous  striped  apron, 
and  clattering  half -sabots,  freshly  scraped 
and  polished  to  a  shine.  She,  too,  plaited 
straw,  and  with  it  wove  many  love  thoughts 
and  sighs  for  Armando. 

At  last  the  stately  goddess  and  her  long- 
tailed  companion  stood  triumphant  in  all  the 
candour  of  marble  not  wholly  spotless.  The 
hour  of  unveiling  it  to  the  astonished  gaze 
of  Bertino  and  Marianna  was  the  happiest 
that  the  ruler  of  Armando's  fate  permitted 
him  for  many  a  day  thereafter.  The  bitter- 
ness and  crushing  disillusion  came  on  the 
day  that  he  loaded  the  carved  treasure  on 

6 


the  donkey  cart  of  Sebastiano  the  carrier, 
and  followed  Juno  and  the  Peacock  down 
the  mountain  pass  to  the  haven  of  his  sweet 
anticipation. 

"  He  has  been  saving  up  his  Saint 
Peters,"  said  Michele  the  Cobbler  to  a  group 
of  mystified  neighbours  as  the  cart  passed 
his  shop.  "  See,  he  has  a  box  full  of  them. 
I  wonder  how  many  saints  one  can  cut  out 
in  a  year.  Ah,  well,  it  was  not  thus  that 
his  uncle  Danielle  did,  nor  his  father  before 
him.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  think,  my 
friends?  Well,  I  think  that  boy  is  going 
wrong." 

"Ah,  st,"  was  the  unanimous  voice. 

"May  your  success  be  great,  Armando 
mine!"  said  Bertino  when  they  parted  at  the 
first  curve  of  the  pass.  "  Perhaps  against 
your  return  I  shall  have  famous  news  from 
America.  Who  knows?  Good  fortune  be 
with  you.  Addio" 

"The  saints  be  with  you  to  a  safe  re- 
turn," said  Marianna.  "Addio,  and  good 
fortune." 

7 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"Addio,  carissimi  amid." 

Sebastiano  the  carrier  lifted  the  block 
from  the  wheel  and  the  donkey  moved  on. 
Armando  walked  behind,  keeping  a  watch- 
ful eye  on  the  thing  in  the  cart,  which  was 
in  every  shade  of  the  term  a  reduced  replica 
of  Falguiere's  inspiration. 

"  You  must  be  very  careful,  Sebastiano," 
said  he.  "  Never  in  your  life  have  you  had 
such  a  valuable  load  on  your  cart." 

"  Bah  !  "  growled  the  driver.  "  Valu- 
able !  How  many  have  you  there  ?  Are 
they  all  the  same  size?  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  I  never  had  a  load  as  valuable  as  a 
boxful  of  Saint  Peters  ?  Oh,  bello  /  Only 
last  week  did  I  haul  a  barrel  of  fine  barolo 
to  the  Inn  of  the  Fat  Calf.  Ah,  my  dear, 
that  is  a  wine.  Wee-ah  !  wee-ah  !  —  Go 
on,  you  lazy  one.  That  donkey  is  too 
careful." 

They  reached  their  destination  in  Genoa 
without  mishap.  When  the  art  dealer  who 
had  consented  to  look  at  it  had  bestowed  on 
Armando's  work  of  a  year  a  momentary  sur- 

8 


A  Goddess  Scorned 

vey,  he  turned  to  the  sculptor,  who  stood  hat 
in  hand,  and  regarded  him  earnestly. 

"  Who  told  you  to  do  this,  dear  young 
man  ? "  he  asked,  removing  his  eyeglasses. 

"  Nobody,  signore.     It  was  my  own  idea." 

The  merchant  turned  to  Juno  with  a  new 
interest. 

"  Not  so  bad  as  it  might  have  been,"  he 
shrugged,  moving  aside  to  view  the  figures  in 
profile.  "What  is  your  name  ?  Signor  Cor- 
rini.  Well — but,  my  dear  young  man,  it  will 
be  a  long  time,  perhaps  years,  before  you  are 
able  to  do  work  of  this  kind.  Naturally,  I 
could  not  permit  it  to  remain  in  my  place. 
What  else  have  you  done  ?  Something 
smaller,  I  suppose." 

Armando  strove  hard  to  keep  them  back, 
but  the  sobs  choked  him. 

While  the  merchant  stood  by,  offering 
words  meant  to  comfort,  but  which  added  to 
his  anguish,  he  replaced  the  marble  in  the 
box  and  nailed  the  lid  before  rousing  Sebas- 
tiano  from  his  siesta  in  the  cart. 

"  It  all  comes  of  keeping  the  saints  too 
9 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

long,"  grumbled  the  carrier,  as  he  helped  lift 
Juno  and  the  Peacock  back  into  the  cart. 
"  Never  did  your  uncle  Daniello  have  any 
thrown  on  his  hands — not  he.  Ah,  there 
was  a  man  of  affairs  ! " 

The  donkey  tugged  at  the  chain  traces, 
moved  the  wheels  a  spoke  or  two,  then 
stopped  and  looked  around  at  the  driver, 
wagging  his  grizzled  ears  in  mute  but  elo- 
quent disapproval  of  hauling  a  load  skyward. 
But  after  duly  weighing  the  matter,  assisted 
by  several  clean-cut  hints  from  a  rawhide 
lash,  he  set  off  at  his  own  crablike  pace. 

The  first  turning  of  the  highway  attained, 
Armando  paused  and  gazed  on  the  city  be- 
low, his  heart  aflood  with  bitterness.  Far  to 
the  westward  the  sun,  in  variant  crimson 
tones,  lay  hidden  under  the  sea,  like  the  last, 
loftiest  dome  of  some  sinking  Atlantis.  In 
every  white  hamlet  of  the  slopes  the  Ange- 
lus  was  ringing.  Night  birds  from  Africa 
wheeled  around  the  towering  snares  set  for 
them  by  the  owners  of  the  olive  terraces  and 
villas,  whose  yellow  walls  in  long  stretches 

10 


A  Goddess  Scorned 

bordered  the  steep  route.  With  his  little 
group  of  living  and  inanimate  companions 
Armando  trudged  along,  his  head  bowed, 
silent  as  the  marble  in  the  cart.  The  gloam- 
ing quiet  was  unbroken,  save  for  the  gluck 
of  the  wheels  and  the  distant  chant  of  the 
belfries. 

They  were  yet  a  long  way  from  the  out- 
ermost cot  of  Cardinal!  when  a  resounding 
shout  brought  the  donkey  to  a  standstill  and 
startled  Sebastiano  into  a  "Per  Bacco  /  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  Bertino.  He  was 
rounding  a  curve  in  the  road,  brandishing  a 
piece  of  folded  paper,  and  clattering  toward 
them  as  fast  as  he  could  in  his  heavy  wooden 
shoes.  His  radiant  face  proclaimed  that 
something  had  happened  to  fill  him  with 
gladness.  A  few  paces  behind  came  Mari- 
anna,  but  in  her  eyes  there  was  no  token  of 
joy.  She  had  beheld  the  loaded  cart. 

"  Long  live  my  uncle  ! "  cried  Bertino, 
grasping  Armando's  hand.  "The  letter  has 
come,  and  I'm  off  for  America.  Think  of 
it,  Armando  mio,  I,  Bertino  Manconi,  going 

ii 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

to  America !  It  is  no  longer  a  dream.  I 
am  to  go — go,  do  you  understand  ?  The 
money  is  here,  and  nothing  can  stop  me. 
But  come,  you  do  not  seem  happy  to  hear 
of  my  great  good  fortune.  I  know,  dear 
friend,  you  are  sorry  to  lose  me.  Bah  !  one 
can  not  live  in  the  mountains  all  his  life,  and 
perhaps  you  too  will  be  there  some  day — 
some  day  when  your  Juno  is  sold.  To-night 
all  my  friends  shall  drink  a  glass  of  spumante 
to  my  voyage — yes,  the  real  spumante  of 
Asti.  At  the  Inn  of  the  Fat  Calf  will  I 
say  addio,  for  I  set  sail  to-morrow.  Tell 
me,  now,  do  you  not  count  me  a  lucky 
devil?" 

"  You  are  lucky,"  said  Armando  sadly. 
"  I  wish  I  could  go.  My  own  country  does 
not  want  me." 

Marianna  walked  at  the  tail  of  the  cart. 
While  her  brother  was  talking  she  had  lifted 
the  box  in  the  hope  that  it  might,  after  all, 
be  only  the  empty  one  that  he  was  bringing 
back  ;  but  the  weight  of  it  told  her  the  truth 
she  had  read  in  Armando's  face. 

12 


A  Goddess  Scorned 

"The  beast! "she  said,  "to  refuse  such 
a  fine  thing  as  that.  What  did— 

Armando  signalled  silence,  and  pointed 
to  Sebastiano,  who  walked  ahead.  By  this 
time  Bertino  understood,  and  he  too  ex- 
claimed : 

"  The  beast ! " 

"Who's  a  beast?"  asked  the  muleteer. 

"  That  art  merchant,  whoever  he  is. 
Bah !  What  would  you  have  ?  In  this 
country  a  fellow  has  no  chance.  What  a 
fool  one  is  to  stay  here  ! " 

"  No,  no  ;  the  country  is  good,"  said  Se- 
bastiano, shaking  his  head  and  jerking  a 
thumb  toward  Armando.  "  But  what  can 
you  expect  when  one  keeps  his  Saint  Peters 
a  whole  year  ?  " 

The  others  exchanged  knowing  glances 
and  followed  on  in  silence.  The  rest  of  the 
way  it  was  plain  to  all  who  saw  Bertino  pass 
that  he  was  thinking  very  hard,  and  with  the 
product  of  this  mental  exertion  he  was  fairly 
bursting  by  the  time  they  reached  Armando's 
home,  for  he  had  not  dared  to  speak  in  pres- 

13 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

ence  of  the  carrier.  When  Juno  and  the 
Peacock  had  been  restored  to  their  birth- 
place he  began : 

"  Now,  listen  to  me,  amid,  for  I  have  an 
idea.  I  am  going  to  America.  Is  not  that 
so?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  are  going  to  America.    Well  ?  " 

"  Patience.  You  know  that  as  the  assist- 
ant of  my  uncle  in  his  great  shop  in  New 
York  I  shall  be  rather  a  bigger  man  than  I 
am  here.  Who  knows  what  I  may  become  ?  " 

"Ah,  sz;  who  knows?"  said  Marianna. 

"  Listen.  Now,  let  us  have  a  thought 
together.  Here  is  Armando.  He  is  a  fine 
sculptor.  We  know  that.  The  proof  is 
here."  He  tapped  the  big  box.  "  But  in 
Genoa  they  are  too  stupid  and  too  poor  to 
buy  his  magnificent  work.  Now,  in  Amer- 
ica people  are  neither  stupid  nor  poor. 
Why  can  he  not  make  a  fortune  in  Amer- 
ica?" 

"  I  can't  go  to  America,"  said  Armando. 

"  No  ;  he  can't  go  to  America,"  chimed 
in  Marianna.  "  What  a  foolish  idea  ! " 


"  Excuse  me.  Who  wants  him  to  go  to 
America  ?  He  stays  in  Cardinali  and  makes 
statues.  I  go  to  New  York  and  sell  them. 
Now,  my  dears,  do  you  see  which  way  the 
swallow  is  flying  ?  " 

"  But " 

"  But " 

"  But  nothing.  Do  you  think  that  I, 
who  sail  for  America  to-morrow,  do  not 
know  what  I  am  about  ?  Listen.  What  do 
you  suppose  I  was  doing  on  the  way  up  ? 
Well,  I  was  thinking.  I  have  thought  it  all 
out.  I  ask  you  this,  Armando :  Juno  and 
the  Peacock  you  made  from  a  photograph  ? 
Very  well ;  can  you  not  make  other  things 
from  photographs?  From  New  York  I 
shall  send  you  the  picture  of  some  great 
American  ;  some  one  as  great  as — as  great 
as " 

"  Crespi,"  suggested  Armando,  now  inter- 
ested in  the  project. 

"  Crespi  ?  No,  no.  Some  one  greater, 
like— like " 

"  D'Annunzio,"  Armando  ventured  again. 
15 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  Bah  !  Who  is  he  ?  I  mean  some  one 
very  great,  like— 

"  I  know  ! "  cried  Marianna.  "  Like  the 
Pope!" 

"  No,  no,"  persisted  Bertino.  "  It  must 
be  some  man  as  big  as  Garibaldi.  That's 
it.  But  not  a  dead  Garibaldi.  He  must  be 
alive,  so  that  I  may  sell  him  the  bust  that 
you  will  make  of  him.  What  would  you  do 
with  a  man  like  that,  for  example  ? " 

"Well,"  said  Armando,  pausing  and  look- 
ing up  at  the  ceiling,  as  though  weighing  the 
matter  carefully,  "  I  should  make  a  very  fine 
bust  of  such  a  man." 

"  Bravo  ! "  cried  Bertino.  "  With  a  piece 
of  your  best  work  for  a  sample,  how  long 
should  I  be  getting  orders  for  more  ?  Not 
many  days,  I  promise.  And  the  Americans 
have  gold.  What  say  you,  my  friend  ?  Is 
it  not  a  grand  idea  ? " 

"Sz,  si;  a  grand  idea." 

In  truth  it  loomed  before  Armando  as 
the  chance  of  his  life.  Now  as  ardent  as 
the  other,  he  agreed  to  begin  work  upon  a 

16 


A  Goddess  Scorned 

bust  in  marble  so  soon  as  he  should  receive 
from  America  a  photograph  of  the  chosen 
subject.  When  finished  he  would  send  it  to 
New  York,  there  to  be  put  on  exhibition 
and  offered  for  sale. 

That  afternoon  the  Saale  steamed  from 
Genoa  Bay  with  Bertino  a  steerage  passen- 
ger. Some  time  after  the  ship  had  swung 
from  her  quay  Armando  and  Marianna 
looked  from  the  studio  window  over  the  cy- 
press fringe  toward  the  gap  in  the  mountains 
that  shows  the  sails  of  ships  but  conceals  the 
Mediterranean's  waves.  Presently  a  black 
bar  of  smoke  moving  lazily  across  the  aper- 
ture told  them  that  he  was  on  his  way. 

Near  the  window  a  block  of  Carrara 
marble  glistened  pure  and  white  in  the  sun- 
light. Armando  wondered  what  manner  of 
being  he  should  release  from  it — a  President, 
a  money  king,  or  a  great  American  beauty  ? 


CHAPTER   II 

CASA     DI     BELLO 

THE  banked  fire  of  America's  Sabbath 
gave  its  quiet  to  Bowling  Green  the  day  that 
Bertino  landed  in  New  York.  It  was  not 
the  New  York  he  had  seen  so  often  from 
the  heights  of  Cardinali.  The  cloud-pierc- 
ing houses  had  always  loomed  in  his  dream 
pictures,  but  no  returned  exile  had  ever  told 
him  that  they  filled  the  soul  with  this  name- 
less dread.  He  longed  to  be  in  Mulberry, 
which  all  travellers  agreed  was  the  next  best 
thing  to  being  in  Italy.  With  a  goatskin 
box  under  one  arm,  a  tawny  cotton  um- 
brella pressed  by  the  other,  and  his  left  hand 
clutching  the  knotted  ends  of  a  kerchief 
holding  more  luggage,  he  set  out  from  the 
Barge  Office.  In  the  band  of  his  narrow- 
18 


Casa  Di  Bello 

brimmed  black  soft  hat — the  precious  adorn- 
ment of  festal  days — stood  a  gray  turkey 
feather,  and  about  his  bare  neck  in  sailor 
noose  was  tied  a  cravat  of  satin,  green  as  the 
myrtle  of  his  native  steeps.  As  he  strode 
up  Broadway,  past  old  Trinity  and  Wall 
Street,  the  heavy  fall  of  his  hobnailed  boots 
started  the  echoes  of  the  New  World's  finan- 
cial centre. 

A  flock  of  fellow-pilgrims  clattered  by  at 
high  speed  in  care  of  a  guide,  who  charged 
five  cents  a  head  for  piloting  them  safely  to 
the  Italian  colony.  The  hatless  women,  bur- 
dened with  babies  and  heavy  sacks,  struggled 
bravely  to  keep  up  with  the  men,  who  car- 
ried the  umbrellas.  Bertino  fell  in  behind, 
and  soon  they  turned  the  corner  of  Franklin 
Street.  Here  they  got  their  first  glimpse  of 
Mulberry,  which  lay  clearly  visible  in  the 
distance  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  whose  summit 
is  Broadway.  Beneath  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
which  spans  the  street  at  the  Tombs  Prison, 
forming  an  arching  frame  for  the  picture, 
they  could  see  the  pleasant  lawn  of  Paradise 

19 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Park.  It  was  a  bright  afternoon,  and  the 
broad  patch  of  greensward  gleamed  like  a 
great  emerald  down  there  in  the  sunlight,  and 
the  low-roofed  houses  all  around,  with  the 
sun's  fire  in  their  window  panes,  had  a  home- 
like countenance.  This  was  not  the  image 
their  minds  had  wrought  of  Mulberry,  where 
travellers  said  the  people  were  herded  in 
pens  that  knew  not  the  light  of  day.  How 
strange  that  no  one  had  ever  told  them  it 
was  so  cheerful  and  bello  !  But  when  they 
reached  the  heart  of  the  quarter  they  had  no 
more  thrills  from  the  contemplation  of  nat- 
ural beauty.  Here  the  air  throbbed  with 
the  staccato  cadence  of  south  Italian  patois. 
The  signs  over  the  shops  were  no  longer 
gibberish,  and  Bertino  blessed  the  day  that 
he,  Armando,  and  Marianna  had  paid  the 
mountain  pedagogue  three  liras  to  teach 
them  words  of  ordinary  size. 

Mulberry  was  in  its  accustomed  Sunday 

manner.     Nearly  all  the  shops  were  closed, 

and  their  faces,  so  smiling  on  week  days  in 

scarlet  wreaths  of  dried  peppers,  clusters  of 

20 


Bertino's  arrival  at  Paradise  Park. 


Casa  Di  Bello 

varnished  buffalo  cheeses  and  festoons  of 
Bologna  salame,  now  frowned  in  shabby 
black  or  dark-brown  shutters.  Madre  Chi- 
ara's  bower,  evergreen  on  working  days  with 
chicory  and  dandelion  salad  and  Savoy  cab- 
bage, had  vanished  with  its  owner.  No 
gossip-hungry  women,  with  primed  ears, 
bent  about  the  basket  of  the  garlic  seller  on 
China  Hill,  for  she  was  out  with  everybody 
to-day  in  her  best  clothes.  The  crippled 
beggar  at  the  hydrant  was  not  missing,  but 
he  shivered  in  the  May  sunshine  because 
Sara  the  Frier  of  Pepper  Pods  was  not 
there  with  her  pail  of  fire.  Another  impor- 
tant brazier  was  in  Sunday  retirement — that 
of  old  Cantolini  the  Gondolier,  and  in  con- 
sequence there  floated  on  the  air  no  suave 
odour  of  cooking  pine  cones,  whose  seed 
the  Napolitani  of  the  Basso  Porto  so  love 
to  munch. 

In  the  rear  courts,  where  gamblers  at 
morra  bawled  and  capered  like  madmen, 
rows  of  pushcarts,  their  stubby  shafts  in  the 
air,  told  of  a  twenty-four-hour  truce  in  the 

21 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

strategic  fray  waged  between  the  peddler 
army  and  the  artful  police.  The  narrow  rib- 
bon of  sky  between  the  tall  tenements  had  a 
Sunday  look  ;  it  was  not  mottled  with  shirts 
of  many  patches  hung  out  to  dry,  and  the 
iron  fire  escapes,  stripped  of  their  week-day 
wash  things  in  the  general  sprucing  up,  gave 
to  the  eye  here  and  there  the  colours  of 
Italy.  The  dingy  caffts,  from  whose  tene- 
brous depths  tobacco  smoke  poured  with  the 
scent  of  viands,  were  crowded  with  the  Cala- 
briani,  the  Siciliani,  and  the  Napolitani  of 
the  rural  districts  visiting  Mulberry  for  an 
innocent  spree. 

The  jewelry  shops  were  open  and  doing 
a  lively  trade.  Young  men  bought  wed- 
ding rings  and  tried  them  on  the  fingers  of 
their  promised  wives,  while  faint-hearted 
bachelors,  at  the  same  counter,  parted  with 
their  hard-earned  coin  for  little  silver-tipped 
horns  against  the  evil  eye.  At  the  door  a 
brawny  flower  woman  in  spickest  gingham 
held  a  basket  of  dahlias  fresh,  mingled  with 
carnations  and  asters  that  had  lost  the  bloom 

22 


Casa  Di  Bello 

of  first  youth.  It  was  a  sure  vantage  ground 
for  her  traffic.  The  mating  couples,  proud 
in  their  ownership  of  the  wedlock  band, 
stopped  at  the  basket,  every  one,  and  close- 
fisted  indeed  was  the  future  husband  who 
did  not  hand  a  posy  to  his  bride  elect. 

As  the  wondering  Bertino  passed,  bearded 
men  in  the  role  of  newsboys  bellowed  their 
wares  in  his  ears  :  "//  Progresso  !  LJAraldo  ! 
Ultaliano  in  America!  Due  soldi!"  Lit- 
erature got  scant  nourishment,  but  tobacco- 
selling  throve,  and  the  man  without  a  lengthy 
rat-tail  cigar  in  his  mouth  was  marked  among 
his  fellows.  They  were  all  in  their  smartest 
clothes.  Starched  shirts  were  too  numerous 
to  give  their  wearers  distinction,  and  not  a  few 
of  the  clean-shaved  necks  fretted  within  stiff 
collars.  Here  and  there  dark-skinned  young 
sparks  with  red  neckties  puffed  cigarettes 
and  showed  fine  in  apparel  that  smacked  of 
Bowery  show-windows.  Scarcely  a  woman 
was  there  from  whose  ears  did  not  hang 
long  pendants  of  gold,  nor  a  feminine  head 
that  did  not  gleam  in  oily  smoothness. 

23 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Shawls  woven  in  the  gaudy  hues  and  fan- 
tastic patterns  of  Italian  looms  splashed  the 
throng  with  colour,  and  a  few  of  those  large- 
rayed  combs  that  Apennine  maidens  love  to 
\vear  glinted  in  the  sunshine  of  Paradise 
Park.  Much  courting  went  forward  on  the 
park  benches,  the  fond  ones  caring  not  an 
atom  for  the  stare  of  colder  eyes,  but  retain- 
ing their  entwined  pose  in  sweet  oblivion  to 
the  rest  of  Mulberry. 

The  company  in  charge  of  the  five-cent 
guide  followed  their  leader  into  a  broad 
alley,  and  Bertino  was  left  alone  in  the  con- 
course, at  loss  whither  to  turn.  Not  a  soul 
gave  the  least  heed  to  him.  Those  whom 
he  asked  to  point  him  to  342  Mulberry 
Street,  his  uncle's  abode,  passed  on  shaking 
their  heads  and  mumbling  something  in 
broad  Sicilian  or  Neapolitan  which  the 
young  Genovese  did  not  understand.  Some 
sighed  as  they  made  the  sign  of  not  know- 
ing, as  though  that  number  were  the  darkest 
of  mysteries.  At  length  a  gleam  of  light 
came  over  one  face. 

24 


Casa  Di  Bello 

"  I  know,"  said  the  man,  a  young  fellow 
decked  in  Sunday  corduroy.  "  It  is  Casa 
Di  Bello." 

"  Yes ;  Giorgio  Di  Bello  is  the  name  of 
my  uncle." 

"  Your  uncle  ?  Santa  Maria,  signore  ! 
Let  me  carry  your  trunk." 

But  Bertino  only  hugged  the  goatskin 
closer,  the  tales  of  Mulberry  sharks  current 
in  every  mountain  hamlet  of  Italy  being 
vivid  in  his  mind. 

"  I'll  show  you  the  house,  anyway,"  said 
the  man  of  knowledge,  and  Bertino  fol- 
lowed. 

The  sidewalk  was  too  narrow  for  the 
buzzing  stream.  The  asphalted  roadway  had 
become  the  grand  promenade,  and  there  the 
panorama  of  Italia's  types  unrolled  :  black 
men  of  Messina,  with  the  hair  and  skin  of 
Persia,  exiled  from  Etna's  slopes  mayhap 
by  the  glowing  lavas  that  burn  up  olive 
grove  and  vineyard  ;  red,  flat-nosed  men  and 
fair-haired  women  of  Lombardy,  driven  per- 
chance from  their  fertile  plains  by  the  ruin 
3  25 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

that  rides  grimly  on  the  freshets  of  the  Po, 
but  brought  oftener  by  the  tax  collector  ; 
cowherds  and  clodbreakers  of  the  Roman 
Campagna,  whose  clear-toned  dialect  found 
an  antiphonal  note  in  the  patter  of  the  gaunt 
but  often  brawny  sons  of  fever-plagued 
Maremma.  Here  and  there  in  the  moving 
throng  strutted  a  labour  padrone,  out  to 
salute  and  be  saluted  with  lifted  hat  by  all 
who  prized  his  favour.  One  and  all  they 
uncovered  as  he  passed — sturdy  dwarfs  from 
Calabria  and  the  Basilicata,  mere  pegs  from 
the  heel  and  the  toe  of  the  Boot  ;  limpid- 
eyed  mountaineers  from  the  Abruzzi,  bronzed 
fags  of  half-African  Sicily,  riffraff  of  the 
Neapolitan  slums ;  America-mad  fishermen 
of  the  Adriatic  and  Tyrrhene,  deserters  of  a 

9 

coinless  Arcadia  to  become  hod-slaves  with 
a  bank  account. 

Slowly  but  volubly  the  clans  of  toil 
moved  by,  unheeded  by  a  little  mother 
whose  life  was  given  for  the  moment  to  shin- 
ing the  heavy  gold  rings  in  her  baby's  ears. 

" Eccola,  signore"  said  the  man  in  cor- 
26 


Casa  Di  Bello 

duroy,  pausing  before  a  house  that  faced  St. 
Patrick's  graveyard.  "  This  is  Casa  Di  Bello, 
the  finest  domicile  in  the  colony." 

It  was  an  old-style  brick  dwelling  of  two 
stories  and  attic  on  the  northern  fringe  of 
Mulberry — the  only  house  in  the  street 
whose  front  was  not  gridironed  with  fire 
escapes.  The  low  stoop,  iron  railing,  and 
massive  dadoes,  the  Ionian  door  columns  of 
hard  wood,  the  domed  vestibule  and  gener- 
ous width,  marked  it  a  rare  survivor  of  the 
building  era  that  passed  with  the  stagecoach 
and  the  Knickerbocker — a  well-preserved 
ghost  of  the  quarter's  bygone  fashion  and 
respectability. 

Bertino  looked  up  and  read  in  bold  text 
upon  a  well-polished  brass  doorplate  the 
assuring  name,  "  Di  Bello." 

"  Grazie  mille"  he  said  to  his  guide.  "  I 
am  too  poor  to  make  you  a  present.  Grazie 
mille." 

The  other  made  off  with  a  long  face,  but 
protesting  that  he  had  not  expected  a  pres- 
ent for  such  a  small  service. 

27 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Heartened  by  the  nearness  of  a  friend, 
Bertino  gave  the  heavy  bell  handle  a  stout 
pull.  Decorously  and  without  undue  prompt- 
ness the  broad-panelled  oak  swung  narrowly, 
and  the  mountaineer  looked  into  the  stern 
complacency  of  his  aunt  Carolina's  eyes. 
He  was  too  young  to  remember  this  smug 
dame  of  closing  forty,  who  had  gone  from 
Cardinali  twelve  years  before  to  become 
perpetua  *  in  the  Mulberry  parish  rectory. 
That  peaceful  career  she  had  forsaken,  for 
reasons  of  which  we  may  learn  ;  but  the 
eight  years  of  churchdom  were  still  in  her 
head.  Nor  had  she  ever  lost  the  outward 
badge.  She  was  rotund  and  well-coloured, 
monastic  of  mien,  and  sleek  as  a  cathe- 
dral rat. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  asked,  scanning 
trie  lad  from  his  hobnailed  soles  to  the  tur- 
key feather  in  his  hat. 

"  I  am  Bertino  Manconi,  nephew  of 
Signer  Giorgio  Di  Bello,"  he  answered 


*  A  priest's  housekeeper. 
28 


Casa  Di  Bello 

proudly,  unabashed  by  her  poignant  stare. 
"  Are  you  Angelica  the  cook  ?  " 

When  her  breath  came  free  she  said : 
"  But  it  was  to-morrow — Monday."  His 
arrival  one  day  ahead  of  the  appointed  time 
shocked  her  rubric  sense  of  order  and 
ignored  her  ritual  of  coming  events.  "And 
you  come  to  the  door  like  a  Sicilian,  bag- 
gage in  hand  and " 

"  Ha  !  Welcome  to  my  house  ! "  cried 
a  hearty  voice  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  "  A 
hundred  welcomes,  caro  nephew  !  But  what 
a  stupendous  height !  Step  aside,  my  sister, 
and  bid  the  giant  enter.  How  is  this  ?  At 
the  parish  house  did  they  teach  you  to  make 
friends  wait  outside  ?  Well,  it  is  not  so  at 
Casa  Di  Bello.  So  you  are  a  day  ahead  ? 
Well,  so  much  the  better.  Ah,  what  a  fine 
voyage  you  must  have  had  ! "  • 

It  was  no  longer  a  voice  on  the  upper 
floor,  but  the  form  and  substance  of  a 
bush-headed,  chubby  man  of  dawning  fifty, 
whose  prodigious  King  Humbert  mustache 
quaked  as  he  puffed  down  the  staircase  as 

29 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

best  his  short  legs  would  permit.  He  threw 
himself  upon  Bertino,  who  had  to  stoop  a 
little  to  receive  a  resonant  salutation  on  each 
cheek.  Then  Carolina  bestowed  a  pair  of 
stony  kisses,  first  remarking  with  wooden 
seemliness,  "  Welcome,  my  nephew." 

At  the  same  moment  Angelica  the  cook, 
a  mite  of  a  crone  with  a  Roman  nose,  car- 
ried a  steaming  soup  into  the  dining  room, 
set  it  on  the  table,  and  called  out  in  the 
shrillest  Genovese : 

"  Ecco,  signori ;  the  minestrone  is  served, 
and  the  most  beautiful  minestrone  I  have 
made  since  the  Feast  of  the  Mother." 

After  his  three  weeks  of  steerage  fare 
Bertino  fell  upon  the  dinner  with  a  zest  that 
delighted  his  uncle,  but  dismayed  Carolina, 
and  caused  the  rims  of  Angelica's  eyes  to 
spread  until  they  were  as  round  as  the  O  of 
Giotto. 

"Well,  did  you  stop  to  pick  up  any 
gold  in  the  street  ? "  asked  Signor  Di 
Bello,  winking  at  his  sister,  and  sprinkling 
grated  Parmesan  over  a  ragout  of  green 

30 


Casa  Di  Bello 

peppers,  "  I  suppose  you  have  your  valise 
filled  with  it." 

"  Ma  che  !  "  said  Bertino,  holding  up  his 
plate  and  looking  wise.  "  Do  you  think  I 
am  such  a  fool  ?  I  don't  expect  to  pick 
up  money ;  but  shall  I  tell  you  some- 
thing ?  Well,  it  is  this :  In  this  country  I 
shall  soon  make  enough  money  to  fill  that 
valise." 

The  others  dropped  their  knives  and  forks 
and  regarded  him  with  amazement. 

"  By  the  egg  of  Columbus  ! "  exclaimed 
Signor  Di  Bello.  "  Are  you  not  to  work  in 
my  shop  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  of  course." 

"Then  how  do  you  expect  to  make  so 
much  money  ?  " 

There  was  no  reason  for  it  ;  but  Bertino, 
oddly  enough,  yielded  to  a  sudden  impulse 
to  repress  the  truth.  Cocking  his  eye  first 
to  the  ceiling  and  then  on  the  tablecloth,  he 
uttered  a  fib  that  concealed  his  and  Arman- 
do's darling  project  for  selling  life-size  busts 
in  America. 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

The  coffee  served  and  the  maraschino 
sipped,  Signor  Di  Bello  drew  the  straw 
from  a  Virginia  and  settled  for  a  smoke, 
while  Aunt  Carolina  showed  Bertino  to 
the  room  in  the  attic  appointed  for  his 
use.  She  unpacked  his  few  belongings  and 
placed  them  tidily  in  a  small  chest  of  draw- 
ers, at  the  same  time  laying  before  him  sol- 
emnly the  parish-house  rules  by  which  she 
governed  Casa  Di  Bello.  Had  her  brother 
below  stairs  heard  this,  it  is  likely  that  he 
would  have  sent  up  many  a  guffaw  with 
his  smoke  rings,  for  by  him  these  rules  had 
received  little  honour  save  in  the  steady 
nonobservance. 

Carolina  had  never  set  her  face  against 
Bertino's  coming  to  the  house,  and  there  was 
no  method  in  the  frosty  greeting  she  had 
given  him  at  the  door.  It  was  merely  that 
the  sight  of  him,  standing  there,  bag  and 
baggage,  a  whole  day  before  the  time,  had 
staggered  her  orderly  being  and  drawn  from 
her  an  instinctive  protest.  This  all  came  of 
her  unruffled  years  as  perpetua  of  the  rectory 
32 


Casa  Di  Bello1 

— that  domain  of  peace  and  even  tenor, 
whose  broad,  clear  windows  she  often  regard- 
ed wistfully,  looking  over  the  churchyard 
to  Mott  Street,  from  her  sanctum  on  the 
second  floor. 

A  half  decade  had  gone  by  since  the 
Wednesday  of  Ashes  when  the  brother  and 
sister  patched  up  the  quarrel  that  had  sepa- 
rated them  in  their  poorer  days  and  she 
returned  to  the  air  of  laity.  But  the  sacer- 
dotal brand  would  not  wear  off,  nor  did  she 
wish  it  to.  In  the  conduct  of  the  household 
her  churchly  notions  had  free  scope  enough, 
but  applied  in  censorship  of  her  brother's 
life  they  met  with  dreary  contempt.  To 
no  purpose  did  she  preach  when  Mulberry 
buzzed  with  the  latest  story  of  his  gallantries, 
for  his  ready  argument  was  always  an  elo- 
quent "  Ma  ckef"  and  an  unanswerable 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  In  vain  did  she  wait 
up,  often  from  compline  to  prime,  that  she 
might  shame  him  when  he  came  home  aglow 
with  bumpers  of  divers  vintage.  It  was  after 
a  certain  rubicund  night  at  the  Gaffe  of  the 
33 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Three  Gardens  that  he  cut  short  her  usual 
sermon  with  a  roaring  manifesto  against 
church  and  state  and  a  declaration  of  per- 
sonal liberty  for  all  time. 

"  Snakes  of  purgatory  ! "  he  had  remarked 
in  conclusion,  one  foot  on  the  staircase. 
"  Am  I  not  a  man  ?  If  you  want  priests, 
go  to  the  parish  house,  where  you  be- 
long. Once  a  priest  always  a  priest." 
With  this  taunt,  meant  to  be  a  parting 
one,  he  toddled  up  to  bed,  but,  reaching 
the  landing,  stopped  and  called  back  :  "  If 
you  don't  leave  me  alone,  I'll  bring  a  wife 
here." 

From  that  time,  which  was  two  years 
before  Bertino's  arrival,  she  gave  up  her  noc- 
turnal vigils,  and  without  let  or  hindrance 
the  signore  feasted  and  drank  with  boon  com- 
rades, and  cracked  walnuts  on  his  head  with 
an  empty  bottle — a  feat  for  which  he  was 
justly  renowned  in  all  the  caff  Is  of  the  quar- 
ter. The  lowering  peril  of  a  wife  in  the 
house  had  set  her  to  thinking  as  she  had 
never  thought  before  on  this  dire  possibility. 
34 


Casa  Di  Bello 

Her  brother's  nonconformity  was  a  flaw  in 
her  sceptre,  but  she  knew  that  a  wife  meant 
the  utter  collapse  of  her  sovereignty  in  Casa 
Di  Bello.  Wherefore  she  resolved  to  abide 
by  the  lesser  evil,  and  bend  her  strength  to 
warding  off  the  greater.  Thus  it  befell  that 
with  the  accession  of  Bertino  to  the  family 
she  was  not  ill  content.  The  coming  of  a 
man  to  the  board  imparted  no  misgiving. 
What  her  soul  dreaded  and  her  wits  had 
guarded  against  was  the  advent  of  a  woman. 
And  she  felicitated  herself  that  no  wife  had 
succeeded  in  crossing  the  threshold.  To  her 
ever-watchful  eye,  she  fondly  believed,  was 
due  the  blessing  of  her  brother's  continuance 
in  the  path  of  bachelorhood,  despite  the  caps 
that  were  set  for  him  on  every  bush.  The 
first  families  of  the  Calabriani,  the  Siciliani, 
and  the  Napolitani,  along  with  the  flower  of 
the  Genovesi,  the  Milanesi,  and  the  Torinesi, 
had  in  turn  put  forth  their  famous  beauties 
as  candidates  for  his  hand  and  grocery  store. 
But  they  all  had  been  driven  from  the  Rubi- 
con, and  at  present  there  was  no  pretender 

35 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

in  the  field.  Had  there  been  she  would  have 
known  it,  as  she  knew  of  all  the  other  mari- 
tal campaigns,  through  Angelica,  who  went 
to  market  daily  and  kept  in  touch  with  Sara 
the  Frier  of  Pepper  Pods,  Mulberry's  queen 
of  gossips. 


CHAPTER    III 

A    SPOT    OF    YELLOW    PAINT 

NEXT  morning,  while  the  sun  gave  its 
first  touch  to  the  bronze  head  of  Garibaldi, 
Bertino  tied  on  an  apron  and  set  to  work  in 
Signor  Di  Bello's  shop,  that  peerless  grocery 
whose  small  window  and  large  door  look 
tranquilly  on  the  Park  of  Paradise.  For  a 
dozen  years  it  had  been  known  far  and  wide 
among  Italia's  children  as  "  The  Sign  of  the 
Wooden  Bunch."  The  nickname  came  of  a 
piece  of  carved  oak  simulating  a  bunch  of 
bananas  that  hung  before  the  door.  In  the 
early  days  of  his  business  life  the  padrone 
had  learned  that  the  air  of  Mulberry  was 
singularly  fatal  to  the  real  fruit  that  he  put 
on  show  outside.  It  happened  some  days 
that  as  many  as  twenty  bananas  on  one  stem 
37 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

would  evaporate,  though  all  the  others  re- 
mained intact.  It  was  always  the  ones  near- 
est the  ground  that  vanished.  One  evening 
it  struck  Signor  Di  Bello  that  a  violent 
chemical  change  in  the  exposed  fruit  would 
put  an  end  to  its  mysterious  disintegration. 
So  he  substituted  the  bananas  of  art  for 
those  of  Nature.  The  evaporation  ceased 
straightway,  but  for  two  or  three  mornings 
thereafter  certain  small  boys,  on  their  way 
to  the  Five  Points  Mission  School,  beheld 
with  bitter  disappointment  the  oaken  sym- 
bol, and  answered  its  grin  of  mockery  with 
looks  of  blackest  disgust. 

Those  boys  are  workingmen  now,  and 
when  they  dream  of  the  springtimes  of  child- 
hood, they  see  Giorgio  Di  Bello,  paint  brush 
in  hand,  giving  a  fresh  skin  of  yellow  to  the 
make-believe  bananas.  It  was  a  promise  of 
vernal  roses  as  sure  as  the  chirp  of  a  bluebird 
in  the  churchyard  grass  or  the  gladsome 
advent  of  Simone  the  Sardinian  with  his 
hokey-pokey  cart.  When  the  people  saw 
him  giving  the  bunch  its  annual  sprucing  up, 
38 


A  Spot  of  Yellow  Paint 

they  were  wont  to  exclaim  :  "Bravo!  Sum- 
mer is  coming.  Soon  we  shall  have  music 
in  Paradise." 

The  morning  of  Bertino's  d£but  at  the 
shop  was  a  bright  one  of  young  June,  and 
the  baby  maples  of  the  Park  were  showing 
their  first  dimples  of  green.  It  was  the 
blatant  hour  when  Mulberry's  street  bazaar 
is  in  full  cry  ;  when  the  sham  battle  fought 
every  morning  between  honeyed  sellers  and 
scornful  buyers  is  in  hot  movement ;  when 
dimes  and  coppers  are  the  vender's  prize 
against  flounders,  cabbages,  saucepans,  cali- 
coes, apples,  and  shoestrings,  as  the  stake 
that  fires  the  housewife's  tongue  and  eye  ; 
when  stout-lunged  hucksters  cut  the  din 
with  the  siren  songs  their  kind  have  sung  for 
ages  in  the  market  place. 

Spick  and  span  in  the  clean  blouse  of 
Monday,  Signor  Di  Bello  stood  on  his  broad 
threshold  ready  for  the  day's  trade.  He  had 
just  shown  Bertino  how  to  convert  the  prosy 
doorway  into  a  bower  abloom  with  garlands 
of  freckled  salame,  cordons  of  silvery  garlic, 

39 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

clusters  of  cacciocavalli  cheese  ;  how  to  hang 
in  the  entry  luring  sheaves  of  wild  herbs, 
strings  of  hazelnuts,  and  the  golden  colo- 
cynths  that  are — as  all  must  know — an  ano- 
dyne for  every  ill.  To  flaunt  this  ravishing 
group  to  the  senses  of  the  colony  was 
Bertino's  first  duty  of  the  day.  That  ac- 
complished, he  set  out  on  either  side  of  the 
doorway  the  tubs  of  tempting  stockfish,  the 
black  peas  of  Lombardy,  parched  tomatoes 
and  red  peppers,  lupini  beans  in  fresh  water, 
ripe  olives  in  brine,  and  macaroni  of  sundry 
types. 

Presently  the  foraging  women,  their  blue- 
and-red-skirted  hips  wabbling  under  the 
weight  of  well-loaded  baskets  balanced  on 
their  heads,  began  to  enter  the  shop.  Dexter- 
ously taking  down  their  burdens  and  setting 
them  on  the  counter,  they  called  out  their 
wants  in  the  varied  jargons  of  the  Peninsula. 
Not  only  was  Signor  Di  Bello  equal  to  them, 
one  and  all,  but  he  could  give  back  two  raps 
in  the  haggling  set-to  for  every  tap  that  he 
received.  When  the  morning  had  worn  on, 
40 


A  Spot  of  Yellow  Paint 

and  the  lay  of  the  last  vender  had  died  out, 
he  opened  a  small  can  of  yellow  paint,  chose 
a  brush  from  the  stock,  placed  it  in  the  hand 
of  his  nephew,  and  said  : 

"  Nipote  mio,  do  you  see  the  green  spots 
on  the  boughs  ?  Well,  it  is  time  to  give  the 
Bunch  a  new  coat." 

Bertino  applied  the  colour,  while  his 
uncle  looked  on  with  fond  and  critical  eye, 
for  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  intrusted  the 
historic  task  to  other  hands  than  his  own. 
Before  the  finishing  touch  had  been  given  he 
was  called  into  the  shop  to  hack  off  a  four- 
cent  chunk  of  Roman  cheese.  A  moment 
later  Bertino  stepped  back  to  survey  his 
handiwork,  the  brush  at  heedless  poise — 
Mulberry's  sidewalks  are  narrow  and  teem- 
ing— when  an  angry  voice  fairly  stung  his 
ear : 

"  Guarda,  donkey !  What  are  you 
about?" 

He  turned  and  looked  into  the  blazing 
eyes  of  a  tall  young  woman,  whose  full- 
powered  beauty  startled  him  more  than  her 
4  41 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

words  had  done,  and  for  the  moment  his 
tongue  had  no  speech. 

"  Clumsy  dog  !  Why  don't  you  look?" 
she  began  again,  drawing  out  a  gingham 
handkerchief  of  purple  and  putting  it  to  her 
face.  On  her  cheek,  just  where  the  flush 
faded  in  the  rich  tawn  of  her  skin,  was  a  spot 
of  yellow — as  strangely  there  as  though  some 
fool  had  tried  to  adorn  a  radiant  blossom. 

"  But  excuse  me ;  a  thousand  pardons. 
I  did  not  see  you,"  he  blurted.  "  I  did  not 
see  you,  veramente,  signorina — beautiful 
signorina." 

"  Bah  ! "  she  flung  back.  "  Where  are 
your  eyes,  calf  of  a  countryman  ?  " 

He  watched  her  as  she  sailed  away  above 
the  heads  of  Mulberry's  little  brown  maids 
and  matrons,  and  for  hours  afterward  felt 
the  spell  of  her  massing  black  tresses,  her 
proud  step,  and  the  rugged  poetry  of  her 
plenteous  line. 

Small  matters  these — a  spot  of  fortuitous 
colour,  flashing  eyes  among  a  people  who 
are  always  flashing,  and  a  mountaineer  with 
42 


A  Spot  of  Yellow  Paint 

youth  in  his  veins  thinking  about  a  well-knit 
and  warm-hued  maid  who  has  proved  her 
fire  with  a  blistering  tongue.  But  in  the 
light  of  all  that  has  come  and  gone,  that 
stain  of  yellow  may  not  be  wiped  out  from 
this  record  of  the  warring  dilemmas  that 
sharpened  the  lives  of  certain  little  people  of 
the  little  world  wherein  we  have  set  foot. 


43 


CHAPTER   IV 

JUNO     THE     SUPERB 

"  O  dolce  Napoli, 
O  suol  beato, 
Ove  sorridere, 
Voile  il  creato  ; 
Tu  sei  1'impero 
Dell  'armonia — 
Santa  Lucia  ! 
Santa  Lucia  ! " 

SIGNOR  GRABBINI,  impresario  of  the 
theatre  of  La  Scala,  resolved  to  give  up  his 
valiant  but  ruinous  fight  for  the  legitimate 
drama.  Such  pieces  as  Othello,  Francesca 
da  Rimini,  The  Count  of  Monte  Cristo, 
acted  with  a  complete  cast,  had  proved  a 
strain  too  severe  for  the  treasury  as  well 
« as  for  the  capacity  of  his  ten-foot  stage. 
In  scenes  where  the  entire  company  was 
"  on,"  the  jam  became  so  great  that  spirited 
44 


Juno  the  Superb 

pushing  set  in,  each  actor  aiming  to  hold 
that  part  of  the  stage  allotted  to  him  by 
the  playbook.  In  the  struggle,  conducted 
sometimes  with  stealthy  art,  that  the  audi- 
ence might  not  be  aware,  toes  were  trodden 
upon  and  tempers  badly  stirred.  Thus  it 
happened  that  after  the  curtain  had  rolled 
down,  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  com- 
pany were  likely  to  fall  to  shaking  their  fists 
at  one  another,  naturally  to  the  delight  of 
the  audience,  who  could  hear  the  wordy 
battle  very  distinctly.  Wherefore  Signer 
Grabbini  decided  to  change  the  policy  of  his 
theatre. 

One  night  he  stepped  before  the  curtain 
to  make  the  momentous  announcement. 
Before  he  could  open  his  mouth  a  sailor- 
man,  red  as  Hiawatha,  reached  over  from 
the  wicketed  parapet  of  the  gallery  and 
cried  : 

"  A  clasp  of  the  hand,  comrade  ! " 
With  a  gallery  so  low  as  that  it  were 
folly    to    court   dignity,   so   the   little   man 
shook   the    big   hand   and   then    began   his 
45 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

speech,  which  he  punctuated  with  glances 
at  a  piece  of  white  paper  that  he  held.  In 
glittering  words  he  set  forth  the  motives 
that  animated  him  in  deciding  upon  a 
change  from  the  plan  of  amusement  that 
had  been  so  successful,  so  profitable  to  him- 
self, and  so  agreeable  to  the  signori  of  the 
company.  But  it  was  because  he  wished 
to  serve  better,  to  captivate  even  more  the 
highly  esteemed,  the  eminent,  the  generous 
Italian  colony,  that  in  the  future  there 
would  be  no  five-act  tragedies,  but  a  veri- 
table banquet  every  night  of  short  comedies 
— oh,  so  laughable  ! — from  the  pens  of  the 
world's  greatest  dramatists,  in  the  true  Ital- 
ian as  well  as  the  dialect  of  sweet  Naples. 

"  Bravoes  ! "  from  all  over  the  theatre  put 
a  stop  to  the  speech  for  a  moment.  Men 
in  the  orchestra  pens  leaned  over  the  edge 
of  the  stage  and  lit  their  cigarettes  at  the 
footlights,  and,  taking  advantage  of  the 
pause,  the  meal-cake  man  shouted  his  wares. 

"  But  this  is  not  all,  my  friends,"  went 
on  Signor  Grabbini. 

46 


Juno  the  Superb 

A  fresh  shower  of  bravoes. 

"  Keep  your  feet  off  my  head  ! "  cried  a 
man  in  the  pit  to  one  in  the  gallery. 

"  Bah  !  "  gave  back  the  other,  drawing  in 
a  huge  boot  between  the  wickets  ;  "  in  this 
theatre  one  can  not  stretch  his  legs." 

"  Silence  !     Hear  the  impresario  /  " 

"  Beginning  on  Sunday  night,"  said  the 
man  on  the  stage,  "  I  shall  have  the  distinct 
honour  of  presenting  to  the  highly  discrimi- 
nating taste  of  the  most  esteemed  and  emi- 
nent patrons  of  La  Scala  an  extraordinary 
singer  of  canzonets." 

"  Bravo,  Signor  Grabbini  !  " 

"  Silence  ! " 

"  Meal  cakes  !     A  soldo  each  ! " 

"  Silence,  thou  donkey  ! " 

"  With  your  permission,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen," the  impresario  went  on,  bowing 
low,  "  I  will  proceed.  The  artist  to  whom 
I  have  referred  is — ah !  my  friends — she  is 
an  angel  of  delight — a  glorious  type,  a  crea- 
ture magnificent.  My  word  of  honour,  the 
most  beautiful  woman  in  New  York — nay, 
47 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

in  all  America.  To  the  artistic  world  she  is 
known  as  Juno  the  Superb.  Pay  strict  at- 
tention, my  compatriots.  The  evening  of 
the  Feast  of  Sunday  will  indeed  be  an  occa- 
sion most  extraordinary,  for  it  is  my  hon- 
oured privilege  to  inform  you  that  in  ad- 
dition to  the  famous  comedies  and  the 
exquisite  Juno,  there  will  be  an  oyster  cook 
in  the  audience  under  the  especial  adminis- 
tration of  the  management,  who  will  pre- 
pare soups  of  sea  fruit  in  true  Neapolitan 
style  and  at  prices  the  most  moderate." 

"  Bravissimo  !  " 

"Meal " 

"  Silence  !     Evviva  the  oyster  cook  ! " 

"With  these  my  humble  words,  highly 
prized  patrons,  I  will  conclude,  and  from 
the  depth  of  my  heart  beg  you  to  accept 
my  most  cordial  gratitude,  and  the  assurance 
that  in  the  future  as  well  as  the  past  you 
will  find  me  ever  alert  to  serve  faithfully 
and  to  the  plenitude  of  my  power  the 
highly  esteemed,  the  eminent,  the  generous 
Italian  colony." 


Juno  the  Superb 

"  Long  live  the  impresario  !  "  was  rained 
from  all  parts  as  he  backed  off,  salaaming. 

"  Evviva  Juno  the  Superb  ! "  piped  one 
voice. 

"  And  the  oyster  soup  ! "  thundered  a 
Sicilian  hod-carrier. 

At  length  the  curtain  was  raised  on  the 
last  act  of  the  tragedy,  and  the  knights  and 
ladies,  buffoons  and  sages,  soldiers  and  hunts- 
men, began  moving  about  the  stage  gin- 
gerly, with  great  skill  avoiding  collision  as 
they  crossed  or  ducking  their  heads  when 
they  made  exits,  hurried  or  slow,  through 
the  dollhouse  doors. 

On  the  Feast  of  Sunday  a  packed  thea- 
tre bore  witness  to  the  wisdom  of  Signor 
Grabbini's  change  of  policy.  From  the  base- 
board of  the  stage,  which  was  fringed  by  a 
row  of  shrubby  black  heads,  to  the  last  tier 
of  benches  there  was  no  vacant  seat.  The 
first  of  the  short  comedies  was  reeled  off 
without  a  single  toe  trodden  on,  since  it 
required  only  five  dramatis  persona.  Not 
a  joke  went  begging,  for  the  audience  heard 
49 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

them  all  twice — first  from  the  prompter, 
who  bawled  them  from  his  little  green  coop 
at  the  footlights,  and  again  from  the  mouths 
of  the  actors. 

Next  came  the  star  of  the  evenirfg,  Juno 
the  Superb.  As  the  orchestra — blaring  its 
brass — struck  up  the  prelude  of  her  song, 
Signor  Di  Bello  entered  the  tiny  proscenium 
box  and  dropped  into  a  chair.  The  fame  of 
her  plethoric  beauty  had  reached  him,  as  the 
impresario  had  taken  good  care  it  should 
reach  many  an  appreciative  masculine  ear. 
He  was  a  very  different-looking  man  to- 
night from  the  Signor  Di  Bello  of  business 
hours,  clad  in  a  long  drab  blouse,  hacking 
Parmesan  and  weighing  macaroni.  Now 
he  showed  brave  in  snowy  shirt  front  of 
bulging  expanse,  large  diamond,  black  coat, 
white  waistcoat,  lavender  trousers,  and  a 
gorgeous  bouquet  stuck  under  his  left 
cheek. 

When  she  appeared  in  the  glare  of  the 
lights,  draped  frankly  in  the  odd  colours  and 
tinsel  frippery  of  the  Campania  peasant 

50 


Juno  the  Superb 

maid — as  she  is  seen  nowhere  but  on  the 
stage — it  was  plain  that  the  impresario  had 
made  an  intelligent  guess.  Her  exuberant 
charms  were  sufficient  to  deal  even  that 
audience  a  start.  The  men  caught  their 
breath,  and  the  women  made  wry  faces. 
Had  they  possessed  eyes  for  anything  but 
Juno,  they  would  have  seen  that  the  grocer 
in  the  box  was  smitten  hard  by  the  sudden 
picture  of  billowing  womanhood  and  glow- 
ing flesh  tint.  "  Ah,  what  beauty  ! "  he 
breathed,  leaning  farther  over  the  rail,  deep 
in  the  spell  of  her  great  hazel  eyes,  the 
peony  of  her  cheeks,  the  soft  tawn  of  her 
neck,  and  shoulders  that  shaded  down  to 
clearest  amber.  "  Pomegranates  and  hid- 
den rosebuds  !  By  the  egg  of  Columbus  ! " 
And  in  truth  she  was,  as  every  man  had 
to  own,  as  fine  a  woman  as  ever  came  out  of 
Italy  or  any  other  country.  But  this  did  not 
keep  their  teeth  off  edge  when  she  began  to 
voice  "  Santa  Lucia,"  that  evergreen  canzonet 
of  Naples.  She  pitched  upon  a  key  that  baf- 
fled the  orchestra.  The  leader  stamped  his 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

foot  and  shifted  tones  in  vain.  Only  deaf 
ears  could  have  failed  to  perceive  that  it  was 
her  generous  friend  Nature  and  not  art  that 
had  opened  to  her  the  stage  door. 

"  Madonna  Maria  !  "  was  the  criticism  of 
Luigia  the  Garlic  Woman.  "She  has  the 
voice  of  a  hungry  goat  on  a  foggy  morn- 
ing." 

But  there  was  one  pair  of  eardrums  on 
which  her  bleating  did  not  grate.  They  be- 
longed to  Signor  Di  Bello,  in  calmer  mo- 
ments a  man  of  very  good  hearing.  But  he 
was  stone  deaf  now.  Before  the  Levantine 
charms  of  this  thrilling  creature  all  his  senses 
were  absorbed  in  sight. 

"  Brava,  bravissimaf"  he  shouted  at  the 
interlude.  "  Oh,  simpaticone  !  " 

"  What  a  whale  she  is  ! "  said  a  phthisic 
cigarette  girl  to  her  promised  husband,  who 
heard  her  not. 

"  An    ugly    figure     she    makes,    truly," 

sneered  a  barber's  wife  to  her  husband.     "  A 

big  cow  like  that  in  the  frock   of  a  child  ! 

No  honest  woman,   one    sees  easily.     And 

52 


Juno  the  Superb 

look,  Adriano  !  Her  nose  !  I  find  it  similar 
to  the  snout  of  Signora  Grametto's  little 
black-faced  dog." 

There  was  no  gainsaying  this  bold  touch 
of  the  Supreme  Sculptor's  realism.  Glorious 
her  black  tresses,  delectable  her  form  and 
colour,  uptilting  and  ample  her  nose. 

The  canzonet  ended,  she  walked  off  with- 
out bowing  to  or  glancing  at  the  audience, 
but  the  men,  one  and  all,  their  eye  thirst 
still  unslaked,  joined  in  Signor  Di  Bello's 
frantic  demand  for  an  encore.  On  she  came 
with  stolid  countenance  and  began  the  song 
all  over  again,  although  the  women  had  set 
up  a  hissing  that  matched  the  strength  of 
the  applause.  Signor  Di  Bello  called  the 
flower  girl  into  the  box,  bought  an  arm- 
ful of  her  wares,  and  threw  them  wildly  on 
the  stage.  They  fell  in  a  shower  on  all  sides 
of  Juno.  Instantly  she  stopped,  put  her 
arms  akimbo,  and  while  the  orchestra  played 
on,  glared  blackly  at  her  vehement  admirer. 
Flowers  for  a  Neapolitan  of  the  Porto ! 
Blossoms  that  have  poison  in  their  breath  ! 
53 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Stupid  Di  Bello!  Stupid  Genovese  !  Twelve 
years  in  Mulberry,  and  to  forget  the  hatred 
that  Neapolitans  of  Naples  have  for  natural 
blooms !  Perhaps  you  thought  she  was 
from  the  country,  like  most  of  the  people 
there.  Bah  !  In  such  a  serious  matter  one 
ought  to  be  sure. 

It  was  the  women's  golden  chance.  They 
started  a  titter  of  derisive  laughter  that  be- 
came a  gale  and  swept  through  the  theatre. 
Juno  moved  toward  the  box,  trampling  the 
odious  flowers,  and  spat  in  the  face  of  Signer 
Di  Bello.  Then  she  left  the  stage,  followed 
by  an  outpour  of  boorish  gibes. 

"  Infame !  infame!"  It  was  the  voice 
of  Bertino,  crying  loudly  from  the  last  row 
of  benches,  under  the  gallery  hard  by  the 
door.  With  a  firing  emotion  that  he  did 
not  know  was  the  green  fever,  he  had 
watched  the  doings  of  his  uncle,  and  when 
the  bright  colours  rained  about  her,  brushing 
her  cheeks  and  hair,  and  whisking  her  shoul- 
ders, he  thought  with  a  heart-fall  of  the 
wretched  blossom  his  hand  had  bestowed  a 

54 


Juno  the  Superb 

week  before  at  the  Wooden  Bunch.  Madre 
Santissima!  His  uncle  kissed  her  with 
lovely  flowers,  and  he,  miserable  soul,  kissed 
her  with  a  spot  of  yellow  paint.  But  when 
the  people  laughed  and  sneered,  and  he  saw 
her  anger  kindle,  her  cause  was  his  own. 
The  pigs  and  sons  of  pigs !  To  laugh  at 
her !  At  his  queen,  the  amoroso,  of  his 
dreamland,  by  sunglow  and  starshine,  asleep 
or  at  work.  Grander  than  the  dames  of 
Genoa  palaces,  more  beautiful  than  the 
peaches  of  California.  And  his  uncle  !  The 
old  mooncalf  !  He  was  the  cause  of  it  all. 
Served  him  right  that  kiss  she  gave  him 
back.  Ha-ha  !  But  these  jeers,  these  hounds 
yelping  at  his  queen  !  "  Infame  !  infame  !" 
The  people  thought  he  meant  it  for 
Juno,  and  took  up  the  cry,  which  did  not 
subside  until  the  Bay  of  Naples  and  the  cone 
of  Vesuvius  rolled  up  from  the  bottom,  and 
the  second  comedy  began.  Signer  Di  Bello 
had  no  appetite  for  this,  and  he  left  the  box, 
passing  out  amid  the  nudges  and  snickers  of 
the  first  families  of  the  Genovesi,  Milanesi, 

55 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

and  Torinesi,  who  were  there  in  force  along 
with  the  flower  of  the  Calabriani,  Napoli- 
tani,  and  Siciliani.  But  he  put  a  good  face 
on  the  matter,  and  at  the  door  hailed  the 
impresario  : 

"  Ha,  Signor  Grabbini !  Your  singer 
has  at  least  one  liquid  tone."  And  he  dis- 
appeared, chuckling. 


CHAPTER    V 

THE     FIRST     LAD  Y 

THE  following  night,  and  every  night  of 
the  week,  Signor  Di  Bello  held  forth  ecstatic- 
ally in  the  box  at  La  Scala.  But  the  warmth 
of  his  demonstrations  for  Juno  was  unable 
to  melt  the  frost  that  her  dreadful  voice  had 
caused  to  settle  on  the  audience — a  frost 
that  grew  thicker  with  each  new  display  of 
her  copious  self.  From  his  bench  under  the 
gallery  Bertino  was  a  witness  of  his  uncle's 
frantic  courtship,  and  the  green  fever  fairly 
consumed  him,  for  he  had  decided  that  Juno 
was  made  for  him,  and  that  neither  his  uncle 
nor  any  one  else  should  have  her  for  wife. 
In  the  matter  of  courting  he  too  had  not 
been  idle,  though  he  was  young  enough  to 
know  better  than  to  make  a  public  show  of 
s  57 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

his  addresses.  More  than  once  it  had  oc- 
curred that  while  Signor  Di  Bello  took  his 
ease  in  the  Gaffe  of  the  Three  Gardens  of  an 
afternoon,  Juno  and  Bertino  passed  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  together  in  the  grocery.  With  a 
black  mantilla  of  cheap  lace  thrown  over  her 
head,  instead  of  the  accustomed  shawl  that 
maids  of  Mulberry  wear  on  working  days, 
she  visited  the  shop  for  her  supply  of  salame, 
lupine  beans,  or  the  goat's-milk  cheese  of 
which  she  told  Bertino  she  was  very  fond. 
The  first  time  she  entered,  his  heart  leaped 
and  he  began  stammering  excuses  for  the 
spot  of  yellow  he  had  given  her  cheek  at 
their  last  meeting.  Would  the  beautiful 
signorina  believe  that  it  was  all  an  accident, 
clumsy  calf  that  he  was — a  mishap  most 
stupid  ?  He  begged  her  to  forgive  him. 
Would  she  not  ?  Oh,  how  happy  it  would 
make  him  ! 

"  Bah  ! "  she  answered,  looking  him  over. 
"  Give  me  good  weight  of  salame  and  free 
measure  of  beans." 

Clearly,  the  weight  and  measure  that  he 
58 


The  First  Lady 

gave  suited  her,  for  she  came  every  after- 
noon thereafter,  but  never  when  Signor  Di 
Bello  happened  to  be  in  the  shop.  One  day 
he  said  to  her  : 

"  Every  night  I  dream  of  you." 

"Ah,  si?"  she  replied,  arching  her  rich 
brows.  "And  every  night  I  dream.  Shall 
I  tell  you  of  what  ?  " 

"  Of  me  ?"  breathed  Bertino. 

"  Of  you  ?  Simpleton  !  I  dream  of  get- 
ting out  of  this  hogpen.  Blood  of  San  Gen- 
naro  !  Do  you  think  I  came  to  America 
to  live  a  life  like  this  ?  Wait  until  I  have 
money  in  the  Bank  of  Risparmio." 

"  But,  signorina,  I  love  you." 

"  Love  !  What  good  is  that  ?  It  may 
do  for  these  animals  to  live  on.  For  me, 
no.  When  I  marry  I  shall  become  a  grand 
signora." 

On  the  fifth  day  of  their  acquaintance 
she  told  him  her  troubles.  Five  dollars  a 
week  was  all  she  got  at  La  Scala,  and  Sig- 
nor Grabbini  —  a  man  most  stingy  —  kept 
back  two  of  that  for  the  dress,  the  scarlet 
59 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

slippers,  and  the  pink  tights.  Don't  talk  to 
her  of  America  as  a  place  to  make  money. 
What  a  pigsty  was  Mulberry  !  Her  room, 
which  she  hired  of  Luigia  the  Garlic  Woman, 
was  smaller  and  darker  than  any  she  ever 
had  in  Naples.  And  what  did  it  cost  ?  A 
whole  dollar  every  week  !  Five  liras  for  a 
room  !  Merciful  Madonna  ! 

"  Listen,"  said  Bertino,  coming  from  be- 
hind the  counter  and  walking  with  her  to 
the  door  ;  "  I  want  you  for  my  wife.  Marry 
me,  and  you  shall  live  in  the  finest  house  in 
Mulberry— in  Casa  Di  Bello." 

"  What  have  you  to  do  with  that  house  ?  " 
she  asked  quickly. 

"  I  live  there." 

"  But  it  belongs  to  Signor  Di  Bello." 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  his  nephew." 

A  new  interest  awoke  in  her  wary  and 
artful  eye.  "  They  say  he  is  very  rich,"  she 
mused,  looking  toward  the  patch  of  green  in 
Paradise.  "  He  admires  my  singing  very 
much." 

"  Your  singing !  Bah!"  Berti  no's  love 
60 


The  First  Lady 

was  not  deaf.  "  Don't  you  know  why  he 
makes  a  baboon  of  himself  when  you  are  on 
the  stage  ?  You  have  turned  his  old  head 
with  your  beauty." 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  she  said  absently, 
while  there  came  into  her  mind  an  extrava- 
gant avowal  of  love  that  Signor  Di  Bello 
had  made  to  her  behind  the  scenes  the  night 
before.  "Well,  he  is  rich,"  she  went  on, 
"  and  you — are  poor." 

"True;  I  am  not  rich  now,  but  I  shall 
be  soon.  Ha !  Do  you  know  how  I  am 
going  to  make  money  ?  I  do  not  tell  every- 
body— not  even  my  uncle — but  I  will  tell 
you.  I  have  a  friend  in  Italy,  at  Cardinali. 
Do  you  know  the  place  ?  No  matter.  My 
friend  is  what  is  called  a  sculptor,  and  he  is 
going  to  make  statues — oh,  so  fine  ! — of 
great  people  in  this  country.  Now,  it  is  I 
who  am  to  tell  him  what  to  make.  When 
I  have  made  up  my  mind,  I  shall  send  him 
the  picture  of  some  great  American — some 
famous  man — and  from  this  he  will  make  a 
marble  bust.  The  marble  is  all  ready. 
61 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

When  it  is  done  he  will  send  it  to  me,  and 
I  shall — well,  perhaps  I  shall  put  it  in  some 
fine  gallery  like  our  Palazzo  Rosso  in  Genoa. 
Ah,  what  a  place  that  is  !  I  was  there  once 
on  the  Feast  of  the  Child.  Now,  my  friend 
is  a  sculptor  most  wonderful.  I  know  what 
he  can  do.  You  should  see  his  beautiful 
Juno  and  the  Peacock.  If  you— 

"  Juno  and  the  Peacock  ? "  she  broke  in. 
"What  is  that?" 

"  Ah  !  a  lady  most  beautiful,  without 
any  clothes,  and  a  great  bird  with  a  long 
tail.  Oh,  how  beautiful — as  beautiful  as 
you!" 

"Veramente?" 

"  I  tell  you  the  truth.  Now,  when  the 
people  of  America  see  the  bust  that  he  shall 
send,  what  do  you  think  they  will  do  ?  Why, 
they  will  be  mad  for  it,  and  some  rich  man 
will  buy  it.  I  have  not  yet  made  up  my 
mind  how  much  I  shall  make  him  pay.  Not 
less  than  a  thousand  liras,  of  that  you  may 
be  sure.  But  this  will  be  only  the  begin- 
ning. After  that  Armando  will  make  more 
62 


The  First  Lady 

busts,  the  rich  ladies  and  gentlemen  will 
continue  to  buy,  and — who  knows  ? — Ber- 
tino  Manconi  may  become  a  millionaire. 
Now  will  you  be  my  wife  ?  " 

"  He  has  made  one  Juno,"  she  said,  her 
thought  set  on  a  single  phase  of  his  chimera 
—that  whomever  he  chose  for  the  subject, 
after  that  person  a  bust  would  be  fashioned. 
"  Since  he  has  made  one  Juno,  why  not  let 
him  make  another  ?  "  She  said  it  seriously, 
without  guile.  "  Oh,  so  many  photographs 
I  had  taken  in  Naples  !  Here,  none  ;  I  am 
too  poor.  Next  week  I  shall  have  some. 
But  how  fine  I  should  look  in  marble  !  I 
have  thought  of  it  many  a  time.  Ah,  pro- 
prio  bella,  neh  ?  " 

"  You  would  make  the  finest  bust  in  the 
world,"  he  said  ardently. 

"  I  think  so  myself,"  she  nodded,  draw- 
ing the  mantilla  under  her  chin  and  moving 
away  with  her  package  of  freely  weighed 
codfish.  He  watched  her  until  she  turned 
into  the  mouth  of  the  Alley  of  the  Moon, 
whereon  her  lodgings  looked,  and  the  idea 
61 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

that  she  had  put  into  his  head  took  deeper 
hold. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  asked  the  tub  of  olives 
at  the  door.  "  Is  there  a  more  beautiful 
woman  in  America?  It  is  settled.  To- 
morrow I  shall  say  to  her,  '  Carissima  Juno, 
when  you  are  my  wife  I  will  send  your  pic- 
ture to  Armando,  that  you  may  be  the  first 
bust.' " 

He  stood  in  the  doorway  gazing  out  on 
the  park,  assured  now  that  she  must  be  his 
— for  what  greater  honour  could  man  show 
to  woman  ? — when  his  eye  met  the  bronze 
presence  of  Italy's  liberator.  A  withered 
wreath  of  laurel,  with  which  the  Italian 
societies  had  crowned  their  hero  on  his  last 
birthday,  had  dropped  over  the  head  and 
become  a  lopsided  necklace.  Bertino  saw 
the  half-drawn  sword,  the  bared  arm,  the 
conquering  air,  and  his  promise  to  Armando 
came  back : 

"  It  shall  be  some  one  as  great  as  Gari- 
baldi." 

Thus  it  fell  out  that  the  following  after- 
64 


The  First  Lady 

noon,  when  Juno  came  to  the  shop  for 
garlic  and  spaghetti,  and  told  him  that  of 
all  things  she  would  like  to  see  herself  in 
marble,  he  said  :  "  No  ;  it  would  be  false  to 
my  friend." 

"  And  you  say  you  dream  of  me  ?  " 
"  By  night  and  by  day." 
"  And  you  love  me  ?  " 
"Ah,  si\  Madonna  knows." 
"  Still  you  will  not  do  me  this  favour?" 
"  But  it  is  to  be  the  bust  of  a  man." 
"  Bah  !     Why  not  a  woman  ?  " 
"  No,   no ;    I    can    not.      It   would   be 
treachery  to  Armando." 

None  the  less,  she  had  spoken  the  words 
that  sealed  the  fate  of  the  bust.  "  Why  not 
a  woman,  indeed  ?  "  Bertino  asked  himself 
when  she  had  gone.  "  But  it  must  be  the 
greatest  as  well  as  the  handsomest  woman 
in  America."  He  thought  of  the  picture  of 
the  President's  wife  that  he  had  seen  one 
night  at  an  illustrated  Italian  lecture  in  the 
Hudson  Mission.  "  By  San  Giorgio  ! "  he 
exclaimed,  astonished  at  the  grandeur  of  his 
65 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

own  idea.  "  A  bust  of  her  Majesty,  the 
First  Lady  of  America !  This  is  the  best 
thing  I  ever  thought  of." 

The  next  day  was  one  of  vast  import. 
Not  only  did  it  witness  the  purchase  by 
Bertino  in  a  Bowery  store  of  a  small  photo- 
graph of  the  President's  wife,  warranted 
genuine,  but  it  brought  to  the  ears  of  Aunt 
Carolina  news  that  made  her  tremble  for 
Casa  Di  Bello.  From  the  market  place  An- 
gelica bore  the  gossip  that  was  fast  reaching 
every  niche  and  turn  of  Mulberry — the  great 
tidings  that  Signer  Di  Bello  and  Juno  the 
Superb  had  been  seen  the  night  before  in 
the  Caffe  of  the  Beautiful  Sicilian  sitting 
at  the  same  table  eating  a  ragout  of  spiced 
pigskin. 

"  It  must  be  stopped  ! "  declared  Caro- 
lina, setting  her  gold-patched  teeth.  The 
old  bugaboo  of  a  wife  arose,  as  it  did  with 
any  woman  to  whom  the  running  voice  of 
the  colony  linked  her  brother's  name.  "  He 
shall  never  bring  that  Neapolitan  baggage 
to  Casa  Di  Bello." 

66 


The  First  Lady 

That  night,  after  dinner,  from  which  her 
brother  was  absent,  she  hung  long  gold  pend- 
ants in  her  ears,  fastened  her  lace  collar  with 
a  large  cameo  brooch,  and,  her  puce-coloured 
silk  all  arustle,  went  to  reconnoitre,  as  she 
always  did  when  the  sky  of  her  dominion 
was  threatened  with  a  wife.  It  was  a  rare 
sight  to  see  Signorina  Di  Bello  abroad  at 
night,  afoot  in  the  heart  of  Mulberry,  and 
people  stared  in  wonder  or  bowed  reverently 
as  she  passed  by.  A  half-hour  afterward, 
when  the  Bay  of  Naples  and  smoking  Vesu- 
vius made  way  for  Juno  on  the  stage  of  La 
Scala,  three  shoots  of  the  Di  Bello  stock 
were  intent  beholders — Giorgio  in  the  box, 
Bertino  on  his  bench  under  the  gallery,  and 
Carolina  in  a  seat  directly  overhead,  where 
her  brother  could  not  see  her.  With  ears 
stopped,  but  eyes  wide  open,  the  priestly 
dame  surveyed  with  alarm  the  expansive  glo- 
ries of  Juno,  and  regarded  with  dismay  the 
rhapsody  of  Signer  Di  Bello.  If  she  knew 
her  brother,  and  she  was  confident  that  she 
did,  here  was  a  woman  who  could  have  him 
67 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

for  a  husband.  Thoughtfully  she  walked 
home,  and  thoughtfully  she  sought  her  pil- 
low. 

From  the  land  of  sleep  there  came  no 
helpful  message,  and  in  the  morning  she  sat 
before  her  sanctum  window  still  pondering 
what  to  do.  Over  the  forest  of  gray  shafts 
that  marked  the  sepulchres  in  St.  Patrick's 
Churchyard  she  gazed  sadly  at  the  broad 
windows  of  the  rectory  where  she  had  lived 
those  years  of  sweetest  order  and  tranquil- 
ity,  where  husbands  and  wives  had  no  part 
in  life's  economy,  where  marrying  woman 
and  wedlocking  man  jarred  not  the  placid 
liturgy  of  her  days.  Suddenly  the  door 
swung  wide,  and  Angelica  panted  into  the 
room.  As  fast  as  her  short  legs  could  wad- 
dle she  had  come  from  the  market  place  with 
a  basket  full  of  fresh  vegetables  and  a  head 
full  of  dewy  scandal. 

"  O  signorina  !  The  shame  ! "  she  gasped. 
"  Truly  a  disgrace  tremendous  !  Mulberry 
talks  of  naught  else.  I  speak  of  what  I 
68 


The  First  Lady 

know,  for  it  comes  straight  from  the  lips  of 
Sara  the  Frier  of  Pepper  Pods,  who  had  it 
first  from  Simone  the  Snail  Boiler." 

"What?" 

"  A  grand  shame  !  Signor  Di  Bello  is 
betrothed  to  the  Neapolitan  singer  ! " 

"Juno  the  Superb?" 

"  Si,  signorina.     Oh,  the  disgrace  ! " 

"  Misericordia,  Santa  Maria  !  " 

"  And  the  day  is  set.  Luigia  the  Garlic 
Vender  says  it,  and ' 

"For  when?" 

"The  Feast  of  Januarius." 

"The  baggage!"  said  Carolina,  her  aus- 
tere calm  all  gone.  "  That's  her  doing.  A 
Genovese  to  be  married  on  the  Feast  of  St. 
Januarius  !  By  the  mass,  we  shall  see  ! " 

Even  as  the  bottled  blood  of  Naples's 
patron  saint  boils  once  a  year,  so  did  the 
corked  emotions  of  Carolina  begin  to  bub- 
ble. Clearly  the  hour  for  action  had  come. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  that  a  war  cloud  of 
matrimony  had  darkened  her  sky,  and  she 
buckled  for  the  onset  with  a  veteran  heart. 
69 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

She  plumed  herself  on  having  outwitted  and 
driven  to  retreat  more  than  a  dozen  pretend- 
ers to  her  brother's  hand.  Once  it  was  the 
daughter  of  Pescoli  the  Undertaker,  a  ripe 
maid  of  barn-owl  face  and  sinewy  pattern, 
famed  for  settling  disputes  with  the  neigh- 
bours pugnis  et  calcibus  ;  but  Carolina  pitted 
brain  against  brawn,  and  this  terror  bit  the 
dust.  Next  came  the  red  Milanese,  widow 
of  Baroni  the  merchant  in  secondhand  bread. 
In  her  hand  she  brought  her  husband's  ten 
years'  savings  for  dowry,  and  on  her  apricot 
face,  still  fresh,  her  everblooming  smile ; 
she,  too,  was  outgeneralled  by  Carolina,  as 
were  many  other  would-be  wives  as  fast  as 
they  showed  their  heads.  At  least,  so  it 
seemed  to  Carolina.  That  she  held  her  place 
as  mistress  of  Casa  Di  Bello,  she  firmly  be- 
lieved, was  due  solely  to  the  fact  of  her 
never  -  flagging  vigilance.  But  it  may  be 
guessed  that  her  brother's  side  of  the  story 
would  have  dimmed  her  self-glory  as  a  match- 
breaker.  Once  he  said  to  her,  spicing  the 
sentiment  with  a  dry  laugh  : 

70 


The  First  Lady 

"  Do  you  think  I  can't  admire  a  fine 
woman  without  giving  her  a  wedding  ring  ? " 

But  from  the  watchtower  of  her  ever- 
present  dread  the  petticoats  that  she  espied 
were  always  signals  of  real  danger,  however 
he  might  laugh  them  to  false  alarms.  Where- 
fore she  felt  that  she  must  take  up  the 
cudgels  against  Juno  as  she  had  raised  them 
against  other  women,  and  that  without  de- 
lay. The  teeming  line  and  colour  of  the 
Neapolitan  were  clear  in  her  memory,  and  she 
knew  a  stronger  siege  than  ever  had  been 
laid  to  her  brother's  taste.  Henceforth  eter- 
nal alertness  would  be  the  price  of  Signor 
Di  Bello's  bachelorhood  and  her  own  reign, 
which  she  took  as  a  most  serious  matter. 
Alas !  it  was  the  same  old  battle.  Would 
the  struggle  never  end  ?  And  this  ever- 
returning  necessity  of  standing  watch  and 
ward,  of  fighting  away  aspirants  for  wedding 
rings,  rose  before  her  now  in  an  unwonted 
light,  as  a  penance  that  ought  not  to  be  laid 
upon  her,  as  one  that  she  would  like  to  put 
off.  She  could  see  herself  all  her  days  beat- 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

ing  back  would-be  wives  from  the  portals  of 
Casa  Di  Bello,  and  the  troubled  outlook 
weighted  her  spirit  with  despair.  A  yearning 
for  peace  entered  her  soul,  and  with  it  came 
the  thought  of  a  startling  alternative  for  war 
— a  voice  telling  her  to  do  the  very  thing 
that  she  had  fought  so  long  against  her 
brother's  doing.  Take  a  wife !  But  her 
taking  a  wife,  she  mused  smugly,  should  be 
quite  a  different  matter  from  his  taking  one. 
The  maid  of  her  choosing  would  be  no  men- 
ace to  the  status  quo  of  Casa  Di  Bello.  She 
would  be  a  person  of  right  notions,  not 
puffed  with  the  foolish  conceit  of  being  able 
to  govern  the  household ;  a  ragazza  with 
good  sense  enough  to  see  that  a  wife's  place 
under  the  connubial  roof  is  far  inferior  to  that 
of  her  husband's  sister.  Ah  !  the  wife  of  her 
choice,  she  told  herself  fondly,  should  be 
her  creature,  not  a  ruler ;  a  subject,  not  a 
trampler,  of  her  parish-house  laws.  It  never 
struck  Carolina's  mind  to  seek  her  ideal 
among  the  girls  of  New  Italy  ;  that  would 
be  calling  for  aid  to  the  camp  of  the  enemy. 

72 


The  First  Lady 

Her  fancy  took  wing  over  seas  to  old  Italy, 
to  Apennine  maids  untinged  of  the  craft  and 
airs  of  Mulberry ;  to  some  maid  of  clay  that 
would  shape  easy  in  the  mould  of  her  wish. 
When  Bertino  came  in  at  noon  from  the 
shop,  she  began : 

"  You  have  a  sister  ?  " 

"Si;  Marianna." 

"  Very   well.     What   kind   of   a   girl  is 
she?" 

"A  fine  girl." 

"  Is  she  sound  in  health  ?" 

"Ah,  si;  very  sound." 

"How  big  is  she  ?" 

"  Medium  size." 

"Gentle  and  kind?" 

"  Yes,  very  gentle." 

"How  old?" 

"  Let  me  think.     She  will  be  seventeen 
come  the  Feast  of  the  Mother." 

"Any  bad  traits?" 

"  Not  a  single  one,  except  that  she  eats 
too  much  molasses." 

"  What  work  does  she  ?" 
6  73 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  Straw-plaiting." 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  like  to  come 
to  America  ? " 

"  Not  unless — unless — 

"Well?" 

"  Not  unless  Armando  came." 

"Armando?     An  amante,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,  aunt ;  her  amante" 

"  Bah  ! "  Her  spinster  mind  did  not  count 
this  a  serious  matter.  "  Perhaps  I  shall  send 
for  her." 

"  She  wouldn't  leave  Armando." 

"  Then  I  might  go  and  bring  her." 

"What  do  you  want  of  her  ?"  ventured 
Bertino. 

"  Some  day  you  shall  see." 


74 


CHAPTER  VI 

CAROLINA    RESOLVES    TO    GO*  COURTING 

UPON  the  facts  brought  out  Carolina 
decided  that  Marianna  would  do  very  well. 
But  the  leap  was  far  too  hazardous  to  be 
taken  in  the  dark,  and  the  prudence  that 
guided  her  in  the  selection  of  other  house- 
hold belongings  she  would  now  bring  to 
bear  in  choosing  a  wife.  If  needs  be,  she 
would  journey  to  Italy,  and  make  sure  by  a 
close  survey  of  Marianna  that  hers  was  not 
a  nature  likely  to  attempt  a  ruling  of  the 
roost.  To  the  Jesuitry  of  her  view,  a  wife  of 
eighteen  and  a  husband  of  gloaming  forty 
were  well  mated  when  their  union  would 
serve  her  own  most  laudable  purpose  ;  and 
as  for  any  trifling  obstacle  like  a  sweetheart, 
that  could  be  filliped  away.  Once  upon  the 

75 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

ground,  and  satisfied  that  the  girl  would 
prove  a  wife  of  the  desired  brand,  she  had 
no  doubt  of  accomplishing  the  shipment  of 
the  goods.  But  there  set  in  a  fear  for  the 
turn  events  might  take  during  her  absence. 
With  the  sentinel  gone  from  the  gate,  Juno 
might  charge  and  carry  the  castle.  Here 
was  a  danger  that  must  be  offset. 

Throwing  a  plaid  shawl  over  her  head 
and  not  stopping  to  change  her  open-heeled 
house  slippers,  she  set  forth  through  the  ruck 
of  Mulberry  for  the  shop  of  her  brother.  It 
was  a  novel  sight  to  behold  her  hopping 
over  curbstones  in  that  unstately  manner, 
and  hot  grew  the  scandalous  guesses  as  to 
the  cause. 

"  Trouble,  grand  trouble  in  Casa  Di 
Bello,"  was  the  common  voice. 

As  Carolina  hurried  forward  she  had  no 
eye  for  the  signs  of  opening  summer  on 
every  hand — the  fire  escapes  abloom  with 
potted  verdure,  the  blithe  touch  that  glisten- 
ing radishes  gave  to  the  vegetable  stalls,  the 
moon  face  of  Chiara  the  Basilican  beaming 


Carolina  Resolves  to  go  Courting 

from  her  bower  of  dandelion  leaves.  Pass- 
ing the  schoolhouse,  she  received  a  reverent 
bow  and  a  low  "  Buon  giorno "  from  the 
hokey-pokey  man,  who  stood  by  his  dazzling 
cart,  ready  for  the  onslaught  of  boys  and 
girls,  who  would  soon  be  out  at  recess  clam- 
ouring for  one-cent  dabs  of  pink  sorbetto 
on  strips  of  brown  paper.  Little  maidens 
decked  in  snowy  frocks  and  veils  walked 
proudly  to  their  first  communion,  all  mind- 
ful of  their  skirts  as  they  passed  the  racks 
of  Boccanegra  the  Macaroni  Baker,  whose 
new-made  paste  hung  drying  in  the  sun- 
shine ;  but  of  them  Carolina  took  no  heed, 
so  wrapped  was  she  in  her  great  project  of 
courting  a  suitable  wife. 

At  Bayard  Street  the  sound  of  voices 
raised  in  a  familiar  anthem  caught  her  ear, 
and  there  swung  into  view  from  around  the 
corner  a  handful  of  marching  men.  They 
were  members  of  the  Genovese  Society, 
garbed  bravely  in  the  uniform  of  Italian 
infantry,  out  to  celebrate  the  Feast  of  St. 
George,  of  all  holidays  the  dearest  to  Genoa. 

77 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

At  sight  of  them  the  cloud  of  anxiety  that 
had  shadowed  her  face  lifted,  and  she  smiled 
with  a  shrewd  content.  The  Feast  of  San 
Giorgio  !  Her  brother's  birthday  as  well  as 
the  day  of  the  knight  who  carved  the  dragon. 
The  alarm  sounded  by  Angelica  concerning 
Juno  had  driven  the  fact  from  her  head,  but 
there  came  back  with  it  now  a  heartsome 
consciousness  that  it  was  a  day  of  rockribbed 
truth  in  her  brother's  life.  If  at  other  times 
his  promises  might  have  the  frailty  of  spa- 
ghetti sticks,  she  knew  that  it  would  not  be 
so  on  this,  his  saint's  day.  It  had  ever  been 
so  with  the  men  of  Genoa.  With  renewed 
spirits  she  foresaw  the  success  of  her  plan  to 
exact  from  him  a  pledge  not  to  marry  until 
she  should  return  from  Italy.  Such  a  prom- 
ise or  any  other  made  to-day  he  would 
keep,  though  all  the  maids  and  widows  of 
Mulberry  united  to  make  him  disregard  it. 

She  found  him  alone  at  the  shop,  sprawled 

outside  beneath  the  Wooden  Bunch  in  his 

curve-backed  chair,  bathing  in  the  sunshine. 

Only  on  rare  and  critical  occasions  did  she 

78 


Carolina  Resolves  to  go  Courting 

visit  the  shop,  and  the  sight  of  her  brought 
him  quickly  to  his  feet. 

"  Governo  ladro!"  he  exclaimed.  "What 
has  happened  ? " 

"  I  am  going  to  Italy." 

"To  Itajy  !     What  for?" 

"  It  is  twelve  years  since  I  heard  the 
chimes  of  San  Lorenzo." 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  so,"  he  said,  going  behind 
the  counter,  shaving  off  a  piece  of  Roman 
cheese  and  tossing  it  into  his  mouth.  "  When 
do  you  set  off  ? " 

"As  soon  as  possible." 

"  There  is  a  ship  for  Genoa  to-morrow," 
he  said  eagerly. 

Looking  him  in  the  eye,  she  asked,  "  Are 
you  betrothed  to  the  Napolitana  ?  " 

"  Satan  the  crocodile  !  "  he  roared,  pound- 
ing the  counter.  "  This  is  too  much  !  Do 
you  count  me  a  simpleton  ? " 

"  Promise  me,  caro  fratello,  that  you  will 
not  take  a  wife  until  I  return." 

"  By  the  Egg,  I  will  not  promise  !  Do 
you  think  I  don't  know  this  is  my  birthday  ? 

79 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Suppose  the    ship    went    down  ?     I    should 
have  to  live  and  die  a  bachelor." 

"  Promise  at  least  that  you  will  marry  no 
one  for  three  months." 

"  Ma  che  f  What  nonsense  is  this  ?  Are 
you  afraid  of  the  Napolitana?  Bah  !  How 
foolish  you  are  !  A  fine  woman,  yes.  But 
do  you  think  I  don't  know  what  I  am  about?" 

"  Promise  for  three  months." 

"  Si,  si,  if  you  wish  it ;  but  it  is  all  grand 
nonsense." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  in 
Italy  ?  "  she  asked,  with  an  essay  at  archness 
that  was  a  sorry  failure. 

"  Hunt  a  husband?"  he  chuckled. 

"  No  ;  a  wife." 

"  What  shall  you  do  with  her  ? "  he  asked 
gravely,  scenting  the  truth. 

"  Bring  her  to  you,  my  brother." 

"  To  me  !  Excuse  me  ;  keep  her  for 
yourself.  That  is  an  affair  I  shall  attend  to 
when  the  time  comes." 

"  But  in  Mulberry  you  can  not  get  what 
I  shall  bring  you  from  Italy." 
80 


Carolina  Resolves  to  go  Courting 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"A  wife  that  is  good  enough  for  you 
and  Casa  Di  Bello." 

"Bah!  What  do  you  tell  me?"  he 
growled,  walking  to  the  door.  "Talk  to 
me  about  wives  !  They  are  as  thick  as  the 
sparrows  in  Paradise,  and  just  as  hungry. 
Good,  fine  wives,  too."  He  dropped  into 
the  chair,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
and  extended  his  little  legs.  "  Who  is  she  ?" 
he  asked  after  a  while,  twirling  his  huge 
mustache. 

"  Marianna.  Don't  you  remember  her  ? 
Bertino's  foster  sister.  A  fine  young  girl ; 
no  bad  habits  and  sound  in  health." 

"What  age?" 

"  Eighteen." 

"  You'd  better  buy  your  passage  ticket," 
he  said,  "  if  you  wish  to  go  on  to-morrow's 
ship." 


81 


CHAPTER   VII 

A    FLUTTER    IN    THE    TOMATO    BANK 

WITH  a  step  almost  frisky  Carolina  took 
leave  of  her  brother,  well  content  with  the 
first  fruit  of  her  wooing.  She  had  won  the 
consent  of  her  husband  elect  to  wait  for  her 
bride,  and  the  rest  of  the  courtship  seemed 
a  matter  of  plain  sailing ;  wherefore  she 
hastened  across  the  Park  to  the  steamship 
office  and  bank  of  Signor  Tomato  to  secure 
her  passage  for  Genoa.  The  glow  of  tri- 
umph was  upon  her.  She  felt  it  a  certainty 
now  that  her  will  would  prevail  in  match- 
making as  it  had  so  many  times  in  match- 
breaking  ;  and  this  desirable  condition,  she 
reflected,  was  merely  as  it  should  be — only 
the  reward  that  the  just  had  a  right  to 
count  upon  receiving.  Had  she  not  eaten 
82 


A  Flutter  in  the  Tomato  Bank 

salted  fish  in  Lent  and  kept  all  fast  days, 
while  her  brother  had  devoured  flesh  in 
open  shame  and  Angelica  had  been  de- 
tected munching  garlic  salame  even  on  Good 
Friday  ? 

She  paused  before  the  mutilated  but  he- 
roic figure  of  an  American  Jack  Tar  who 
stood  in  wooden  repose  at  the  door  of  Signor 
Tomato.  In  their  palmy  days  the  banks  of 
Mulberry — then  more  numerous  than  the 
colony's  midwives — had  a  trick  of  closing 
their  doors  when  the  amount  of  deposits 
made  it  worth  while,  to  the  increase  of  the 
suicide  rate  and  the  encouragement  of  sti- 
letto practice  upon  the  bankers  who  got 
caught.  After  a  while  the  Legislature  did  a 
little  closing,  and  Signor  Tomato,  one  of  the 
poor  but  honest  caste,  had  to  take  his  gruel 
along  with  the  others.  He  could  not  take 
any  more  deposits,  but  he  kept  on  with  his 
money-exchange  business,  and  when  to  this 
he  decided  to  add  an  agency  for  Mediterra- 
nean steamships  he  admitted  the  Jack  Tar 
as  a  silent  partner.  At  the  time  they  joined 
83 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

forces  the  sailor  was  young  and  handsome. 
The  tobacconist  with  whom  he  began  his 
career  had  failed  after  less  than  a  year  of  ill 
fortune.  But  his  youth  and  hardy  physique 
were  no  match  for  the  climate  of  Mulberry, 
which  soon  proved  as  ruinous  to  his  manly 
beauty  as  it  had  to  Signor  Di  Bello's  real 
bananas.  First  one  of  his  weather  eyes  dis- 
appeared, then  the  fine  Greek  nose  took 
leave,  and  in  quick  order  both  ears  vanished  ; 
at  length  an  arm  and  a  half  melted  away, 
soon  followed  by  a  whole  foot.  It  all  came 
of  his  lounging  on  the  sidewalk  at  hours 
when  not  even  a  respectable  wooden  Indian 
is  found  out  of  doors.  Signor  Tomato 
would  have  insisted  on  his  coming  in  of 
nights,  but  there  was  not  an  inch  of  room 
to  spare  within  the  bank,  with  his  wife  and 
three  little  Tomatoes  all  living  there,  not  to 
speak  of  the  counter,  the  large  dry-goods 
box  that  served  for  a  safe,  the  family  chair, 
and  the  cook  stove.  Once  he  wheeled  his 
silent  partner  into  the  countingroom — just 
after  the  loss  of  his  left  ear — but  the  door 
84 


A  Flutter  in  the  Tomato  Bank 

could  not  be  closed,  and  out  he  had  to  go 
again  into  the  ravaging  night. 

It  was  not  the  long-suffering  Jack  Tar 
that  arrested  Carolina's  steps,  but  this  pla- 
card pendent  from  his  neck  : 


Per  Geneva  Juno  i, 

Piroscafo  Spartan  King, 

Qui  si  Vendono  Biglietti  di 

Passaggio  a  Prezzi  d'Occasione. 


(For  Genoa  June  i,  the  Spartan  King. 
Passage  Tickets  for  sale  here  at  Bargain 
Prices.) 

"  Good-morning,  Signorina  Di  Bello ! 
You  do  me  great  honour  to  read  my  poor 
placard."  It  was  the  high-keyed  voice  of 
Signor  Tomato,  a  little  Neapolitan  of  eagle 
beak  and  long  brown  whiskers.  As  he 
stepped  lightly  from  the  bank,  Bridget,  his 
stout  Irish  wife,  was  behind  him.  She,  too, 
gave  Carolina  a  loud  greeting,  but  in  a 
85  ' 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

brogue  that  was  touched  with  Neapolitan 
dialect,  and  took  up  her  stand  in  the  narrow 
doorway.  At  the  same  time  three  black, 
curly  heads  and  bright  faces  peeped  from 
behind  her  gingham  skirts.  These  intent 
observers  were  Pat,  Mike,  and  Biddy,  small 
but  weighty  factors  of  the  Tomato  establish- 
ment. At  the  sound  of  her  husband's  voice 
the  mother  and  her  brood  had  come  from  a 
mysterious  corner  at  the  back  of  the  bank, 
which  a  lateen  sail  concealed  from  the  eye. 
Carolina  gave  cold  return  to  Signor  Toma- 
to's salute,  but  his  face  did  not  fall.  "  Per- 
haps the  signorina  is  planning  a  voyage  ? " 
he  said,  smiling  broadly. 

"  Yes,  I  go  to  Genoa.  What  company 
is  this?" 

"What  company!"  he  exclaimed,  his 
face  an  image  of  deepest  amazement.  "  But 
pardon  me,  signorina ;  there  is  only  one 
company  in  the  Mediterranean  service,  the 
Great  Imperial  International  General  Navi- 
gation Company,  which  I  have  the  honour 

to  represent." 

86 


A  Flutter  in  the  Tomato  Bank 

"  Father  Nicodemo  went  last  week  on 
some  other  line — the  Duke?  That's  it — 
the  Duke  Line." 

"O  signorina!"  All  his  faculties  of  ex- 
pression united  in  a  show  of  disgust.  "  You 
remember  the  proverb,  '  Do  what  the  priest 
says  and  not  what  the  priest  does.'  My  word 
of  honour,  those  Duke  boats,  they  are  for 
the  beasts.  But  the  Great  Imperial  Inter- 
national General  Navigation  Company's 
ships  are  extraordinary,  stupendous  !  Every 
one  is  a  floating  paradise.  Shall  I  speak 
frankly  and  tell  you  what  they  are  ?  Well, 
they  are  boats  for  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
There  now,  you  have  it." 

"Arrah,  si\  for  signorinies  like  yersilf 
and  signories,  sure."  In  business  matters 
Bridget  always  aided  her  husband  with  a 
corroborant  note. 

"  Do  you  know  what  happened  to  a 
friend  of  mine  who  went  on  that  other 
line?"  the  banker  continued.  "  He  caught 
the  grip.  Why  ?  Now,  signorina,  your 
attention,  and  I  will  tell  you.  The  Duke 
87 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Line  is  not  Italian,  eh  ?  Well,  what  kind 
of  food  do  you  suppose  he  got  from  those 
Englishmen  ?  Bifsoup,  bifsoup,  bifsoup ; 
rosbif,  rosbif,  rosbif.  And  not  a  grain  of 
cheese  for  the  soup  !  For  eighteen  days  he 
saw  macaroni  only  once,  and  then  it  was 
cooked  without  oil  and  had  not  even  the 
tail  of  an  anchovy  or  a  piece  of  kidney  to 
flavour  it.  For  eighteen  long  days  he  had 
not  so  much  as  a  smell  of  garlic  or  the  sight 
of  a  pepper  pod.  Do  you  wonder  that  he 
caught  the  grip  ?  " 

Carolina  was  impressed,  and  Bridget 
clinched  the  argument  with  "  Arrah,  divvil 
a  wonder ! " 

"  Besides,"  Signer  Tomato  went  on,  "  that 
line  is  what  we  navigators  call  uncertain,  lame 
ships.  The  signorina  will  recall  the  proverb, 
'  If  you  go  with  the  lame  you  learn  to  limp.' " 

"  I  wish  to  sail  to-morrow.  Give  me  a 
second-class  ticket." 

"  To-morrow !  Boiling  blood  of  San 
Gennaro !  But  I  will  do  it,  signorina ;  I 
will  get  the  ticket." 


A  Flutter  in  the  Tomato  Bank 

Instantly  Banca  Tomato  became  a  scene 
of  bustle  and  excitement.  The  padrone 
sprang  for  the  door,  pushing  aside  Bridget 
and  scattering  her  brood.  He  darted  behind 
the  curtain  and  reappeared  in  a  second  with 
his  coat  and  hat. 

"  In  ten  minutes  you  shall  know,"  he 
said,  making  off  in  the  direction  of  Broad- 
way, where  there  was  a  real  agency  of  the 
line. 

"Will  ye  sit  down?"  said  Bridget,  plac- 
ing the  family  chair  near  Carolina,  at  the 
foot  of  the  Jack  Tar.  "  Wisha !  Black 
toimes  it  is  for  bankers,  and  no  babies 
comin'  to  kape  the  wolf  from  the  dure.  It's 
mesilf  that  remimbers  this  day  four  years 
come  Patrick's  mornin'  when  me  Biddy  first 
saw  the  light.  Arrah,  manny's  the  family 
wanted  me  thin  for  a  wet  nurse,  and  a  fine 
pinny  had  they  to  pay,  thim  that  got  Brid- 
get Tomah-toe.  Thin  it  was  meat  in  the 
soup  ivry  day.  And  now  phat  is  it  ?  Cab- 
bage in  a  sup  iv  water,  and  secondhand  cab- 
bage, too,  manny's  the  toime.  But  I'm 
7  89 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

after  raisin'  the  little  darlints  as  good  as  anny 
in  Mulberry,  and  much  better,  should  anny 
wan  ax  ye." 

"  Who  ask-a  me  ?  I'm  know  northeen 
'bout  dat,"  said  Carolina,  whose  English 
scholarship  had  few  equals  in  the  colony. 

"  Iv  coorse  ye  don't.  Sure  the  signori- 
nies  are  not  expected  to,  and  they  be  ould 
enough  to  vote  ivry  hour  on  'lection  day. 
It's  lucky  y'are  to  be  goin'  back  to  the  ould 
country.  How  long  is  it  y're  out  ?  " 

"  Ees  twelf  year  dat  I'm  in  deesa  coun- 
tree." 

"Twelve  years  !  Howly  Mother  !  And 
ye're  not  married  yet  !  Troth  I  was  Signo- 
ry  Tomah-toe  the  first  year  I  landed." 

"  What  I'm  care  ? "  retorted  Carolina. 
"  You  mague  too  moocha  noise  from  de 
mout.  Ees  better  you  goin'  keep-a  still." 

Luckily  for  the  cash  interests  of  the 
bank,  Signor  Tomato  appeared  at  this  point, 
for  Bridget  was  not  a  woman  to  adopt  any 
one's  suggestion  that  she  hold  her  tongue. 
Carolina  got  her  steamship  ticket,  and  the 
90 


A  Flutter  in  the  Tomato  Bank 

banker   pocketed   the   first   commission    he 
had  received  in  a  week. 

There  was  meat  in  the  Tomato  soup  that 
night,  and  on  the  way  from  the  butcher's 
Bridget,  with  Pat,  Mike,  and  Biddy  at  her 
apron  hem,  stopped  in  the  Gaffe  of  the 
Beautiful  Sicilian  and  bought  each  of  them 
a  green  cake  out  of  the  chromatic  display  in 
the  window.  While  the  youngsters  were 
all  eyes  and  hands  for  the  pastry,  Bridget 
was  all  sight  and  mind  for  a  certain  living 
picture  that  she  beheld  in  the  half  gloom  of 
the  cafftis  innermost  depth.  Seated  at  a 
table  were  Bertino  and  Juno  the  Superb. 
She  was  tipping  pensively  a  glass  of  red 
wine,  and  he,  with  paper  and  ink  before 
him,  writhed  in  the  throes  of  pen-wielding. 

"  Ho,  ho,  me  beauty  ! "  said  Bridget  to 
herself  on  the  way  home.  "  I'm  thinkin' 
the  ould  wan  ud  have  a  worrud  to  say  about 
that.  So  the  nephew  is  afther  her  along 
wid  the  uncle,  and  she  afther  both  fish  wid 
the  wan  hook.  Well,  I  hope  the  gossoon 
gets  her,  and  it'll  do  him  anny  good.  Di 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Belly  ought  to  be  cut  out,  the  ould  divvil, 
wid  his  winkin'  and  blinkin'  and  collyfoxin' 
afther  young  gerruls.  But  it's  noane  iv  my 
potaties,  and  I'll  not  disgrace  mesilf  talkin' 
iv  it.  If  who's-this — Sara  the  Pepper  Pod 
— iver  got  hold  iv  it  though,  wouldn't  there 
be  a  whillihu  in  Mulberry  !  Thim  ghinny 
wimmin  do  be  good  for  nothin'  but  makin' 
trouble  wid  their  tongues.  And  phat  am  I 
sayin',  annyvvay  ?  Talkin'  iv  the  ghinnies  ! 
Faith  I'm  half  ghinny  mesilf."  When  she 
reached  the  bank  she  said  to  Signor  To- 
mato, "  There's  trouble  brewin'  in  the  Di 
Belly  family." 

"  Troub  in  de  fam  !  Ees  what  for  ? " 
He  took  an  ancient  black  pipe  from  his 
mouth  and  stood  up,  all  attention.  She 
told  him  what  she  had  seen  in  the  gloom  of 
the  caffl.  "  Ha,  ha  ! "  he  cried,  placing  a 
forefinger  wisely  beside  his  nose,  as  he 
always  did  when  quoting  his  Neapolitan 
saws,  "  the  mouse  dances  a  tarantella  when 
the  cat  takes  a  siesta" 

"  True  for  ye,  Dominick  ;  and  a  jewel 
92 


A  Flutter  in  the  Tomato  Bank 

iv  a  dance  'twill  be  agin  the  ould  maid's 
comin'  from  Italy.  Bad  'cess  to  her  anny- 
how,  and  may  the  divvil  fly  away  wid  her 
back  hair  !  Tellin'  me  to  hould  me  tongue  ! " 

When  the  boiling  pot  had  filled  the  bank 
with  its  savour,  she  went  to  the  door  and 
looked  with  pride  on  her  raven-curled  trio 
in  the  roadway  playing  "  duck  on  a  tomato 
can." 

"Here,  Pat,  Mike,  Biddy!"  she  called. 
"  Come  in  and  ate  your  soup." 

They  romped  in,  playing  tag  on  the 
way. 


93 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JUNO    PERFORMS    A    MIRACLE 

OF  great  import  was  the  picture  Bridget 
saw  in  the  Gaffe  of  the  Beautiful  Sicilian. 
It  was  Bertino's  afternoon  off  from  the 
shop,  and  he  had  planned  the  meeting  with 
Juno  the  preceding  day  while  his  uncle 
fought  again  the  battles  of  Garibaldi  before 
an  audience  of  admiring  comrades  at  the 
Three  Gardens.  The  little  tite-a-te'te  meant 
that  a  crisis  had  suddenly  developed  in  the 
green  fever  of  the  grocery  clerk.  His  tem- 
perature had  reached  a  degree  where  he 
swore  vendetta.  Yes,  to-day  she  must 
choose  between  life  with  him  and  death 
with  his  rival.  It  all  came  of  the  Snail 
Boiler's  false  report  that  Signor  Di  Bello 
had  betrothed  himself  to  the  Superb.  But 
94 


Juno  Performs  a  Miracle 

Juno  eased  matters  by  coming  to  the  tryst 
with  consent  on  her  lips.  She  would  be  his 
wife.  It  was  not  Bertino's  hot  breathings 
of  revenge,  however,  that  had  melted  the 
handsome  iceberg.  Her  change  of  poise 
was  due  to  a  pair  of  hard  knocks  that  life 
had  playfully  dealt  her  the  night  before. 
The  first  came  from  the  impresario,  who 
told  her,  with  tearful  voice,  that  the  affairs 
of  the  theatre  had  gone  so  badly  of  late  that 
he  was  obliged — how  much  against  his  will 
Iddio  knew — to  dispense  with  her  services. 
The  second  blow  came  after  the  perform- 
ance, when  she  was  eating  polenta  and  birds 
with  Signor  Di  Bello.  She  had  broached 
the  subject  of  a  wedding  ring,  only  to  •  have 
him  dash  her  hopes  with  a  roar  of  laughter 
that  shook  the  cafft.  The  rich  husband 
failing  and  her  stage  career  closed,  she  de- 
cided to  tide  over  present  difficulties  by  ac- 
cepting Bertino's  offer  of  a  situation  as  wife. 
Though  he  had  promised  her  a  home  in 
Casa  Di  Bello,  she  was  too  shrewd  not  to 
perceive  that  he  would  find  it  a  promise 
95 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

hard  to  make  good.  But  there  was  another 
prize  whereon  she  had  set  her  purpose. 

She  was  madly  addicted  to  the  photo- 
graph habit.  The  only  genuine  emotion  of 
which  her  nature  seemed  capable  was  the 
one  of  delight  she  evinced  when  beholding 
a  picture  of  herself  in  some  new  pose.  In 
Naples  a  good  part  of  her  earnings  as  bottle- 
washer  in  a  wine  house  had  gone  for  por- 
traits ;  and  the  passion  still  clinging  to  her, 
she  had  begun  to  mortgage  her  salary  at  the 
theatre  to  a  Mulberry  photographer.  In 
two  days  she  had  posed  three  times,  and 
brought  each  set  of  the  tintypes  to  the  gro- 
cery to  show  them  to  Bertino.  At  sight  of 
them  he  rolled  his  eyes,  clasped  his  hands, 
and  exclaimed  : 

"  Ah,  how  beautiful !  How  sympa- 
thetic ! " 

"  It  would  make  a  fine  bust,  nek  f  "  she 
would  add,  but  to  this  Bertino  always  re- 
turned a  decisive  no.  Once  she  showed  him 
an  old  solar  print  that  was  taken  in  Naples. 
It  portrayed  her  in  bare  shoulders,  with  a 
96 


Juno  Performs  a  Miracle 

lace  mantle  over  her  head  and  eyes  looking 
soulfully  at  the  moon.  This  was  her  favour- 
ite. "  In  America,"  she  declared,  "  they 
could  not  make  a  ritratto  like  that."  But 
with  all  her  pictures  there  remained  a  gnaw- 
ing in  the  stomach  of  her  vanity — a  hunger 
that  would  not  be  allayed  since  the  moment 
that  he  told  her  about  the  bust.  She 
wanted  to  see  herself  in  marble. 

It  was  understood  between  them  that  at 
the  meeting  this  afternoon  they  would  settle 
the  marriage  question  once  and  for  all ;  Ber- 
tino  told  himself  it  would  be  settled  for  life 
or  death.  On  his  way  to  the  caffk  he  en- 
countered Carolina,  and  she  stunned  him 
with  the  news  of  her  coming  departure  for 
Italy. 

"To-night  I  go  aboard,"  she  said. 
"  Thus  I  shall  not  miss  the  ship  and  have 
to  wait  five  weeks  for  another,  as  Father 
Nicodemo  did." 

With  thrift-prodding  anxiety  Bertino 
walked  on,  thinking  out  a  plan  for  turning 
her  voyage  to  the  advantage  of  himself  and 
97 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Armando.  The  letter  he  meant  to  write, 
and  its  inclosure  of  a  portrait  of  the  Presi- 
dent's wife,  had  assumed  in  his  mind  a 
boundless  importance.  It  would  be  a 
packet  far  too  valuable  for  intrustment  to 
the  ordinary  mail,  and  registering  letters  to 
Europe  he  had  found,  on  inquiry  of  Banker 
Tomato,  to  be  a  costly  business  ;  nor  was  it 
any  too  safe,  according  to  the  same  author- 
ity. Aunt  Carolina  was  going  to  Cardinali ; 
why  not  send  it  by  her  ?  With  her  own 
hands  she  could  deliver  the  precious  missive 
to  Armando.  Nothing  could  be  safer  or 
cheaper.  But  there  was  not  a  moment  to 
lose  if  she  went  aboard  to-night. 

Thus  it  had  come  about  that  when  Juno 
entered  the  caffk  she  found  Bertino  writhing 
in  the  travail  of  chirography.  Before  him 
on  the  table  lay  a  photograph  of  the  First 
Lady  of  the  Land.  She  checked  an  impulse 
to  catch  it  up  and  tear  it  to  shreds. 

Taking  a  chair  by  the  table  she  watched 
him  while  he  wrote.  When  he  had  finished 
the  letter  he  read  it  over  slowly,  then  took 
98 


Juno  Performs  a  Miracle 

up  the  picture  of  the  President's  wife  to  fold 
the  written  sheet  around  it  and  place  it  in 
the  envelope. 

"  Bah  ! "  she  said.  "  You  talk  of  love. 
What  love  !  Why  don't  you  send  this  pic- 
ture for  the  bust  instead  of  that  one  ?  Am 
I  not  more  beautiful  ?  "  She  drew  from  her 
skirt  pocket  her  favourite  portrait — the  one 
that  showed  her  gazing  wistfully  at  the  moon. 

"Anything  but  that,"  he  answered. 
"The  next  one  shall  be  yours.  I  swear  it, 
if  you  will  swear  to  be  my  wife.  Ah,  mia 
preziosa,  in  this  letter  there  is  a  fortune  for 
me — for  us  both.  Don't  you  see  the  fine 
idea  it  is  to  have  a  bust  made  of  such  a  grand 
signora  ?  It  will  make  a  furore  tremendo  in 
America." 

He  had  put  the  letter  and  the  picture  in 
the  envelope,  and  in  another  instant  would 
have  sealed  it,  but  Juno  sprang  to  her  feet 
and  pointed  to  the  door,  crying : 

"  Quick  !  Go  stop  him  !  That  man  with 
the  brown  hat — my  cousin  !  He  has  just 
passed.  I  must  see  him.  Quick,  Bertino  ! " 
99 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

He  started  for  the  door,  but  hardly 
had  he  reached  it  before  she  snatched  the 
envelope  from  the  table,  took  out  the 
photograph  of  the  President's  wife  and 
put  in  the  one  of  herself.  Bertino  ran 
back  and  forth  in  search  of  the  myth  with 
the  brown  hat,  and  at  length  returned, 
grumbling  that  no  such  person  was  in  the 
street. 

"  Ah,  what  a  pity  !  "  she  said.  "  I  have 
not  seen  my  cousin  since  the  Feast  of  the 
Madonna  del  Carmelo." 

Bertino  licked  the  gum  and  sealed  the 
envelope. 

"And  now,  carina"  he  said,  regarding 
her  tenderly,  "  the  answer  that  you  promised 
to-day." 

"  It  is  ready,"  she  said,  her  eye  on  the 
letter.  "  I  will  be  your  wife." 

"Joy  ! "  he  cried,  and  gave  her  a  resonant 
kiss  that  startled  two  chess-players  from  their 
absorption  and  evoked  a  sneer  from  the  caffb 
waitress. 


100 


Juno  Performs  a  Miracle 

That  night  Bertino  went  with  Aunt 
Carolina  to  the  ship.  Before  saying  buon 
viaggio  he  handed  her  the  letter  for  the 
sculptor. 

"May  you  guard  it  well,  my  aunt ! "  he 
said  solemnly.  "  It  is  of  great  value." 


101 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    PERPETUA    MEETS    A    BEAR 

THE  lookout  had  sighted  Genoa,  but  to 
many  eager  eyes  that  peered  from  the  rail 
there  lay  naught  in  the  northern  distance 
save  the  imperial  sapphire  sparkling  to  the 
clear  and  eternal  blue.  After  a  while,  the 
magic  wand  of  proximity  touching  east  and 
west,  the  great  Mediterranean  gem  revealed 
its  setting ;  the  Riviera  di  Levante  lazily 
unfolded  her  beauty  to  the  eager  men  and 
women  in  the  bow. 

There  was  one  passenger  whose  soul 
missed  the  enchantment.  A  matter  of 
greater  import  filled  her  mind  and  dimmed 
her  vision — her  mission  to  secure  a  wife  for 
Casa  Di  Bello.  She  did  show  an  interest  in 
the  fairy  picture  that  was  coming  out  all 
102 


The  Perpetua  Meets  a  Bear 

around,  but  not  until  the  ship  had  steamed 
so  far  shoreward  that  the  hamlets  of  the 
slopes  showed  their  shining  faces  through 
the  mountain  greenery.  Then  she  stood  in- 
tently regarding  the  land,  her  gaze  set  far 
above  the  white  turrets  and  flaring  walls  of 
the  Sea  City  that  took  form  out  of  the  yel- 
low summer  haze. 

"  O  Geneva  Superba  ! 
Qual  Citta  te  paragon?" 

It  was  Cardinal!  that  Carolina  strained 
her  eyes  to  discern,  and  at  last  she  beheld  it 
—a  weather-beaten  little  town  perched  high 
on  a  crag  of  rock.  Then  she  breathed  con- 
tent and  awaited  patiently  the  time  for  land- 
ing. Within  an  hour  after  her  well-shod  feet 
had  pressed  the  soil  she  was  snugly  installed, 
trunk  and  handtraps,  in  a  veteran  victoria 
drawn  by  a  raw  recruit  of  a  horse,  whose 
youthful  antics  kept  the  driver  busy.  With 
her  luggage  safely  at  her  side  and  the  land- 
ing accomplished  without  mishap,  she  settled 
back  on  the  cushion  and  gave  herself  up  to 
ease  and  self-adoration.  How  much  wiser 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

and  abler  she  was  than  those  excitable,  nerv- 
ous women  whom  she  had  left  on  the  quay, 
still  fuming  over  their  baggage  and  the  cus- 
toms examination  !  Complacently  she  judged 
herself  a  very  superior  person,  and  never  be- 
fore had  she  felt  on  better  terms  with  her- 
self. The  raw  recruit  trotted  decorously 
enough  past  the  monument  of  the  Man  that 
made  an  Egg  stand  on  End,  and  clattered 
under  the  marble  arch,  whereon  St.  George, 
champion  of  Genoa,  was  trampling  a  dragon. 
Presently  the  city  lay  at  her  back,  and  she 
began  to  breathe  the  good  air  of  home  in  the 
white  dust  of  the  highway,  the  pungent  scent 
of  the  sage,  the  sweetness  of  the  honeysuckle 
and  oleander. 

They  began  the  ascent  of  the  winding 
causeway  up  which  Armando  had  toiled  so 
sadly  with  his  despised  Juno  and  the  Pea- 
cock. Long  stretches  of  wall  bordered  the 
route,  which  was  rough  in  places  and  steep, 
and  not  at  all  to  the  taste  of  the  youngster 
in  the  traces.  He  grew  cross  and  nervous, 
and  shied  at  such  innocent  things  as  a  tuft 
104 


The  Perpetua  Meets  a  Bear 

of  cowslips  on  the  roadside  or  an  umbel  of 
clematis  on  the  wall.  t 

"What  kind  of  horse  have  you  there?" 
asked  Carolina,  picking  up  a  valise  that  had 
been  jolted  from  the  seat  several  times. 

"  What  kind  of  a  horse  ? "  repeated  the 
cocchiere,  as  though  unable  to  credit  his  ears. 
"  Ah,  signora,  there  is  none  better  in  all 
Genoa ;  only  he  is  a  little  green  and  has  had 
the  staggers  once.  Verily  a  fine  beast." 

At  the  bight  of  a  turning  a  Franciscan 
monk  came  in  view  suddenly  from  behind  a 
thicket  of  myrtle.  He  wore  the  brown  robe, 
scanty  cape  and  hood  on  the  shoulders,  the 
girdle  of  knotted  cord,  the  wooden  sandals 
of  his  order.  The  recruit  struck  up  a  dance, 
and  would  have  caracoled  to  the  upsetting  of 
the  victoria,  had  not  the  monk  run  forward 
and  caught  his  head. 

"  I  regret  that  I  frightened  your  horse, 
signora,"  said  the  friar ;  "  but  I  think  he  will 
go  safely  now." 

To  the  mind  of  Aunt  Carolina,  both  the 
danger  and  its  allayance  had  sprung  from  an 
s  105 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

eminently  proper  source.  To  be  put  in  peril 
by  a  holy  man  was  a  distinction  second  only 
to  being  rescued  by  one.  In  thanking  her 
deliverer  she  made  known  with  pride  that 
she  too  had  been  a  limb  of  the  Church. 

"  For  eight  years,  father,  was  I  perpetua 
of  the  rectory  in  Mulberry." 

The  monk  crossed  himself  and  trudged  on. 

They  were  not  far  now  from  the  last 
squirm  of  the  highway  that  serpentined  to 
Cardinali.  The  angle  by  the  myrtle  thicket 
doubled,  they  entered  upon  a  road  that  for 
half  a  mile  was  an  almost  level  shelf  on  the 
mountain  side.  On  one  hand  yawned  a 
precipice  that  grew  deeper  as  the  road  wore 
upward,  and  all  that  stood  between  an  un- 
governable horse  and  his  driver's  eternity 
was  a  low  stone  wall  built  along  the  margin. 
Carolina  would  have  descended  from  the 
vehicle  and  walked  the  rest  of  the  way  but 
for  the  persuasive  driver,  who  promised  her 
upon  his  honour  that  all  would  go  well  now 
they  had  reached  a  stretch  of  road  that  was 
not  steep.  He  could  assure  the  signora  that 
1 06 


The  Perpetua  Meets  a  Bear 

his  horse  was  kind  and  gentle  at  heart,  but 
coming  of  a  lordly  stock  he  loved  not  the 
menial  task  of  hauling  heavy  loads  uphill. 
A  person  of  education  like  the  signora  would 
understand  that.  Peril  ?  Not  a  spark  of  it 
now  that  the  going  was  smooth  and  easy. 
See!  he  was  behaving  better  already. 

The  horse  was  steadier,  and  all  might 
have  ended  well,  but  for  certain  dark  objects 
that  had  appeared  at  this  moment  from  be- 
hind the  last  bend  and  were  dimly  visible 
far  up  the  pass.  As  they  drew  near,  the  ears 
of  the  recruit  stiffened  higher  and  higher,  and 
a  few  short,  wild  snorts  gave  further  signal  of 
danger.  In  the  oncoming  group  was  a  tall 
and  sinewy  mountaineer,  bronze  of  face  and 
shock-headed,  who  led  a  monkey  with  one 
hand  and  with  the  other  held  the  chain  of  a 
large  cinnamon  bear.  By  his  side,  a  little 
behind,  tramped  his  wife  in  picturesque  rags 
and  tinsel.  She  carried  a  brown  baby,  and 
half  dragged  along  a  toddling  boy  with  a 
tambourine.  When  only  a  dozen  rods  sepa- 
rated them  from  the  carriage,  the  mounte- 
107 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

bank,  obeying  business  instinct,  commanded 
the  bear  to  rise  on  his  hind  paws.  With 
clumsy  alacrity  the  beast  did  so,  while 
the  master  doffed  his  hat,  and  with  the 
others  of  the  vagabond  troop  stood  lined 
on  the  roadside  ready  to  receive  Carolina's 
bounty. 

The  huge  brown  shape  risen  so  suddenly 
in  his  path  was  more  than  the  overwrought 
nerves  of  the  lordling  could  stand,  and  away 
he  shot,  bit  and  reins  a  cipher,  bent  upon 
turning  out  and  flying  past  the  mysterious 
terror.  The  hubs  of  the  victoria  struck 
against  the  low  stone  parapet,  kept  bumping 
hard  and  rapidly  from  one  jagged  projection 
to  another,  and  do  his  best  the  driver  could 
not  steer  the  maddened  animal  clear  of  the 
rude  masonry.  Carolina's  first  thought  was 
to  leap  into  the  road  rather  than  be  popped 
over  the  wall  to  sure  destruction.  She  did 
not  wait  for  a  second  thought,  but  sprang, 
and  landed  by  a  miracle  clear  of  the  wheels, 
at  the  feet  of  the  astonished  bear.  Another 
instant  and  the  inquiring  beast  would  have 
1 08 


The  bear-tamer's  wife. 


The  Perpetua  Meets  a  Bear 

scratched  her  face  or  combed  her  hair,  but 
his  master  jerked  him  back  with  a  mighty 
tug  at  the  chain,  while  the  wife,  setting  down 
her  baby,  leaped  to  Carolina's  aid.  They 
carried  her  to  the  herbage  that  fringed  the 
highway.  Then  the  mountebank  set  off  at 
a  run  for  the  victoria,  which  had  come  to  a 
standstill  at  a  point  where  the  road  assumed 
an  abrupt  steepness.  Horse,  driver,  and  ve- 
hicle were  faintly  discernible  through  the 
powdery  clouds  thrown  up  by  hoof  and 
wheel. 

"  Presto  /  To  Cardinali  ! "  cried  the  bear- 
tamer,  coming  up  with  the  carriage,  which 
the  recruit  was  striving  to  back  over  the  par- 
apet. "  A  doctor  !  The  signora  has  broken 
her  leg ! " 

"  To  Cardinali ! "  sneered  the  cocchiere. 
"  Bah  !  The  beast — woo-ah,  woo  ! — he  will 
mount  no  higher — woo-ah,  woo  ! — and  by 
San  Giorgio,  I  blame  him  not. — There,  now, 
ugly  one,  quiet,  quiet. — No  ;  if  I  go  for  a 
doctor  it  must  be  downhill.  And  you  and 
your  bear ! "  he  added  with  a  scowl  at  the 
109 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

showman.  "A  fine  day's  work  you  have 
done.  It  is  men  and  bears  like  you  two 
that  I  would  send  to  prison.  Look  at  those 
hubs.  Who  will  pay  the  damage  ?  Not 
such  as  you,  I  warrant.  Body  of  a  whale  ! 
Why  did  I  ever  come  here  ? " 

"  You  are  a  wild  ass ! "  returned  the 
mountebank.  "Who  but  an  ass  would  try 
to  drive  such  a  horse  ?  My  jackanapes  has 
more  sense." 

"  A I  diavolo,  rascal ! " 

"  All  'infer  no ,  donkey  ! " 

"  Bah  ! " 

"  Bah  ! " 

Without  difficulty  the  driver  turned  his 
horse  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  at  a 
contented  jog  he  started  downhill  toward 
the  spot  where  Carolina  lay.  The  showman's 
wife  was  supporting  her  head  and  begging 
forgiveness  for  her  husband  and  the  bear. 
Presently  Sebastiano  the  Carrier  reached  the 
scene  with  his  empty  cart.  Did  he  know 
the  lady  ?  Some  there  were  who  forgot 
faces,  but  not  he.  Signorina  Di  Bello.  It 
no 


'  A  broken  leg  !     Dio  Santo  ! 


The  Perpetua  Meets  a  Bear 

was  many  years  since  she  went  away,  but  he 
knew  her.  Had  the  sun  overcome  her  ?  A 
broken  leg  !  Dio  Santo  ! 

After  much  vehement  talk  and  excited 
gesture  the  baggage  was  taken  from  the 
victoria  and  the  injured  woman  placed,  none 
too  tenderly,  in  the  donkey  cart,  that  being 
deemed  the  only  safe  course.  It  was  the 
same  springless  wain  that  had  carried  Ar- 
mando's Juno  and  the  Peacock  on  their 
fruitless  pilgrimage  to  Genoa.  For  Caro- 
lina it  was  simply  a  car  of  torture.  By 
the  time  it  rolled  under  the  arched  gate 
of  Cardinal!  she  was  no  longer  sensible  of 
pain. 

It  was  the  most  stupendous  event  the 
village  had  ever  known — this  return  of  Ca- 
rolina Di  Bello  after  an  absence  of  twelve 
years,  and  bumping  along  over  the  cobbles 
in  old  Sebastiano's  cart.  Every  house  that 
the  terrible  ambulance  passed  was  straightway 
emptied  of  its  inmates,  who  fell  in  behind 
the  cart,  clamouring  for  a  view  of  its  uncon- 
scious occupant.  She  lay  as  though  lifeless, 
in 


k 

The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

her  head  propped  by  a  travelling  bag,  her 
face  exposed  to  the  glare  of  the  sun.  No 
one  thought  of  covering  her  face,  so  eager 
were  they  all  to  gaze  at  it  and  compare  her 
looks  with  what  they  were  twelve  years  be- 
fore when  she  departed  for  America.  The 
women  discussed  her  gown  and  foot  gear, 
and  pronounced  them  both  very  signora. 
Sebastiano  drew  up  at  a  flight  of  broken 
stone  steps  that  zigzagged  to  a  porch  shaded 
by  a  gnarled  fig  tree,  whereunder  a  cow-faced 
woman  stood  patiently  stirring  a  copper 
vessel  of  steaming  corn-meal  mush.  The 
donkey  gave  a  bray  of  approval  at  the 
calling  of  a  halt,  and  the  woman,  in  re- 
sponse to  a  general  cry,  clattered  down  to 
the  cart. 

"  Cousin  Carolina !  Misericordia  /  What 
has  happened  ?  Where  did  she  come  from  ?" 

The  new  actor  on  the  scene  was  Serafina 
Digrandi,  aunt  of  the  maid  for  whose  wiving 
Carolina  had  made  the  disastrous  journey  ; 
and,  following  the  mountain  usage,  she  would 
have  flung  herself  weeping  upon  the  move- 
1 12 


The  Perpetua  Meets  a  Bear 

less  figure  of  her  relative,  but  the  village 
doctor  broke  through  the  crowd  in  time  to 
hold  her  back  and  declare  the  patient  still 
alive.  At  this  Serafina  dried  her  tears  and 
began  a  bustling  preparation  of  the  best 
room  in  the  house. 


CHAPTER  X 

BIRTH    OF    THE    LAST    LADY 

WHEN  the  fractured  shin  bone  had  been 
set  by  a  surgeon  from  Genoa,  and  Carolina 
had  passed  a  day  and  a  night  in  sullen  rebel- 
lion at  fate,  she  asked  for  Marianna. 

"  She  is  at  the  mill,  dear  cousin,"  an- 
swered Serafina. 

"What  mill?" 

"The  straw  mill,  where  she  is  a  plaiter." 

"  Let  her  leave  it  and  come  to  me." 

"  But  she  gains  ten  soldi  a  day.  How 
shall  we  live  if  we  give  up  our  work  ? " 

"  I  will  make  up  the  ten  soldi.  Bid  her 
come." 

So  the  next  dawn  did  not  find  Marianna 
hastening  with  lunch  hamper  down  the  path 
through  the  fir  thicket  toward  the  mill  in 
114 


Birth  of  the  Last  Lady 

the  gorge.  But  Armando  was  at  the  spot 
where  he  met  her  every  morning  on  her  way 
to  work.  And  while  he  watched  and  wor- 
ried under  the  alders,  whose  boles  the  tor- 
rent splashed,  Marianna  stood  at  the  bedside 
of  Aunt  Carolina.  At  daybreak  she  had 
entered  the  room  softly,  and  found  the 
woman  from  America  awake. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you,"  she  said 
faintly.  "  In  the  night  I  remembered  a 
packet  that  Bertino  gave  me  for  some  one 
in  Cardinali — a  Signer  Corrini.  It  is  there, 
in  the  bag.  Take  it  out,  and  deliver  it  to 
whom  it  belongs." 

"  Signor  Corrini !  Armando  !  "  cried  the 
girl.  "  I  will  carry  it  to  him  at  once."  She 
started  for  the  door.  , 

"  Armando  is  your  amante  f  " 

"  Sz,  aunt."  She  blushed,  and  left  the 
room,  closing  the  door  gently. 

"  And  I  the  bearer  of  a  message  to  him  ! 
O   Maria !  what  penance  more  ?     All  fasts 
kept,  aves  and  paternosters  said  faithfully, 
and  my  reward — a  broken  leg  !  " 
"5 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Marianna  lost  no  time  in  delivering  the 
precious  missive  to  Armando,  whom  she 
found  waiting  in  the  gorge  at  the  wonted 
place.  Without  stopping  to  answer  his  anx- 
ious inquiries,  she  placed  the  fateful  packet 
in  his  hands. 

"  From  Bertino,"  she  said. 

"  Ah,  joy  ! "  he  cried,  tearing  open  the 
envelope.  "  What  I  have  waited  for  so 
long !  Surely  it  is  the  model  for  my  great 
work,  for  the  bust  that  shall  make  me 
famous  in  America.  Bones  of  St.  George  ! " 

He  had  taken  out  the  portrait  of  Juno, 
and  stood  glaring  at  it. 

"  She  has  a  nose,"  Marianna  remarked. 

"  True,"  said  Armando  thoughtfully.  "  I 
wonder  if  this  is  American  beauty." 

Then  he  began  reading  the  letter  aloud. 
At  the  part  that  told  him  it  was  a  portrait 
of  the  wife  of  the  President  of  the  United 
States  he  leaped  for  gladness,  and  Marianna 
started  away  to  tell  all  the  village.  Ar- 
mando caught  her  arm. 

"Not  a  word!"  he  said;  "not  a  word 
116 


Birth  of  the  Last  Lady 

until  the  work  is  done — nay,  until  it  is  de- 
livered to  her  Majesty  La  Presidentessa." 

And  a  great  secret  it  remained  for  many 
months,  during  which  Armando  toiled  by 
day  and  night,  releasing  from  the  block  of 
marble  the  supposed  First  Lady  of  the 
Land.  Marianna  saw  little  of  him.  When 
she  ventured  to  look  in  at  the  shop  where 
he  worked,  her  visit  never  seemed  welcome. 
He  returned  short  answers  to  her  questions, 
and  showed  petulance  because  of  the  inter- 
ruption ;  and  the  dreadful  truth  was  borne 
in  upon  her  that  he  had  given  himself  heart 
and  soul  to  the  woman  who  took  shape  from 
the  marble.  One  day,  when  the  bust  was 
almost  finished,  she  said  timidly  : 

"Armando,  don't  you  love  me  any 
more  ? " 

"  What  a  question  !  Of  course  I  do," 
and  he  gave  her  a  hasty  kiss.  Then  he  went 
on  chipping  at  Juno's  snub  nose. 

Not  at  all  reassured,  Marianna  went  back 
to  Aunt  Carolina,  whose  convalescence  had 
met  with  a  serious  setback  ;  but  she  was  out 
117 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

of  bed  now,  and  talking  about  returning  to 
Mulberry  by  the  next  ship. 

"  Sit  by  my  side,  carina"  she  said.  "  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you.  Soon  I  shall 
go  to  America.  Do  you  know  what  a  fine 
country  that  is  ?  Well,  you  shall  see.  Aunt 
Serafina  permits  it,  and  I  will  bear  the  ex- 
pense— and  it  is  decided  that  you  may  go 
with  me.  Ah,  how  happy  you  must  be  to 
hear  this  !  How  many  girls  would  like  to 
go,  and  how  few  have  the  chance  ! " 

"  But  Armando  ! " 

"  The  amante  !  "  said  Carolina  scornfully. 
"  Bah  !  he  is  nothing." 

"True  enough,"  sneered  Aunt  Serafina. 
"  All  Cardinal!  knows  what  he  is.  A  good- 
for-naught  who  will  starve  when  the  money 
that  old  Daniello  the  Image  Maker  left  him 
is  eaten  up." 

"  He  is  no  good-for-naught,"  said  the 
girl.  "He  is  a  sculptor." 

She  could  not  help  defending  him  then, 
but  none  the  less  that  night  she  went  to  bed 
with  serious  thoughts  in  her  head  of  accept- 
118 


Birth  of  the  Last  Lady 

ing  Aunt  Carolina's  offer.  It  was  the  month 
of  the  finished  bust,  and  with  the  sense  that 
Armando  no  longer  cared  for  her  was  min- 
gled a  feeling  of  resentment,  which  she 
vaguely  fancied  could  be  expressed  most 
potently  by  forsaking  him — leaving  him 
alone  with  the  stony  woman  who  had 
robbed  her  of  his  heart.  Of  course,  this 
would  not  have  weighed  against  the  love 
that  was  only  wounded,  had  not  the  tone 
of  her  two  aunts  taken  a  ring  of  command, 
instead  of  solicitation,  as  the  day  drew 
nearer  for  Carolina's  departure.  Thus  it 
came  to  pass  that  on  the  very  morning  that 
the  bust  was  carried  down  the  winding  road 
to  Genoa  and  put  aboard  a  ship  for  New 
York,  Marianna  said  to  Armando  : 

"  In  three  weeks  I  go  to  America." 

"You?" 

"  Yes  ;  with  Aunt  Carolina." 

"Why?" 

"  She  wants  me,  and  you   do  not  love 
me." 

"  Dio  !     How  can  you  say  that  ? " 
119 


"  You  love  her  better." 

"  Her  ?     Santa  Maria  !  who  ?  " 

"  I  know." 

"Speak!" 

"  You  love  the  marble  woman." 

He  caught  her  in  a  frenzied  embrace, 
and  imprinted  kisses  upon  her  hair,  her 
glowing  cheeks,  her  lips,  and  her  long, 
brown  eyelashes. 

"Mia  vita!"  he  gasped.  "  Do  you 
know  what  you  will  do  if  you  talk  so  ? 
You  will  drive  me  mad  !  I  swear  that  I 
love  you  better  than  life.  I  would  die  with 
you,  my  angel  of  God.  With  every  breath 
J  love  you,  love  you,  love  you  ! " 

"  O  Madonna,  eke  peccato  /  It  is  too 
late  !  She  has  the  biglietto  for  the  ship. 
They  say  I  must  go  now." 

"  Then,  by  the  sword  of  the  saint,  I  will 
go  too  ! " 

And  go  he  did  on  the  ship  that  carried 

Carolina  and  Marianna,  though  it  was  not 

love  alone  that    drew  him    after  her.      In 

America  his  fame  was  to  be  erected,  and  for 

1 20 


Birth  of  the  Last  Lady 

some  time  he  had  been  thinking  that  it 
would  be  well  for  him  to  be  on  the  spot, 
and  give  Bertino  a  hand  with  the  architec- 
ture. 

The  white  towers  of  Genoa  were  still 
visible  when  Carolina  came  face  to  face  in 
the  companion  way  with  the  amante,  from 
whom  she  was  felicitating  herself  she  had 
separated  Marianna  forever. 

"  What  is  he  doing  on  this  ship  ?  "  she 
demanded  of  the  girl. 

"  Going  to  America." 

"  Bah  !  I  know  that.  Is  he  following 
you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  signora." 

Of  course  she  tried  to  keep  them  apart, 
and  of  course  failed  drearily  every  day  of  the 
voyage.  While  she  hunted  the  vessel  over 
for  them,  they  would  be  enjoying  a  quiet 
exchange  of  confidences  in  one  of  the  secret 
nooks  known  only  to  lovers  on  shipboard. 
One  day  Armando  confessed  to  a  hopeless 
state  of  pocket.  It  had  taken  well-nigh 
every  soldo  he  could  raise  to  pay  his  passage. 

9  121 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

What  he  should  do  to  support  himself  in 
America  was,  he  owned,  a  knotty  problem, 
but  one  that  could  remain  unsolved  only 
until  his  bust  should  be  seen,  admired,  and 
purchased  by  the  First  Lady  of  the  Land. 
It  had  been  shipped  three  weeks  before  ;  al- 
ready it  was  in  America,  and,  oh,  glorious 
thought  !  perhaps  at  that  very  moment 
standing  upon  a  costly  pedestal  in  the 
White  House.  Even  if  her  Majesty  the 
Presidentessa  had  not  found  it  convenient 
as  yet  to  receive  it,  she  would  do  so  in  a 
fortnight  at  the  longest.  Great  people  like 
that  always  took  their  time.  Meanwhile 
had  he  not  Bertino,  his  bosom  friend  and 
commercial  representative  in  the  American 
market,  to  stand  by  him  ?  With  this  gold- 
en view  Marianna  was  in  full  accord,  and 
his  twenty  years  and  her  seventeen  could 
see  nothing  to  worry  about  in  the  New 
World. 


122 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    RACE    TO    THE    SWIFT 

THE  morning  that  Carolina  sailed  for 
Genoa,  Signor  Di  Bello  began  to  recon- 
sider the  roar  of  derision  with  which  he  had 
treated  Juno's  matrimonial  aims,  and  before 
the  day  was  out  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  possess  her  as  his  wife.  To  be  sure,  he 
had  promised  Carolina  not  to  marry  for 
three  months,  and  this  pledge,  given  on  his 
saint's  day,  was  of  course  inviolable  ;  but  he 
reasoned  that  there  would  be  no  breach  of 
faith  in  offering  Juno  his  hand,  and  having 
the  nuptials  set  three  months  to  a  day  from 
the  Feast  of  St.  George.  He  sat  in  the 
shop  thinking  over  the  great  matter,  when 
the  sunlit  floor  was  darkened  by  the  shadow 
of  Sara  the  Frier  of  Pepper  Pods. 
123 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"Buon  giorno,  Signer  Di  Bello,"  she  said, 
in  a  tone  that  gave  promise  sure  of  more  to 
follow. 

"O  Signora  Sara,  buon  giorno" 

"  Two  cents'  worth  of  salt,  if  you  please. 
Ahimk  !  Truly  these  are  days  of  much  ex- 
pense. Never  did  I  fry  peppers  that  re- 
quired so  much  salt." 

"Ah,  si;  much  expense,"  said  Signor  Di 
Bello,  yawning  and  handing  her  out  a  two- 
cent  bag. 

From  a  deep  pocket  of  her  skirt  she 
drew  a  begrimed  canvas  money  pouch,  and 
untied  a  long  string  with  which  it  was 
closed  at  the  top  and  wound  about  many 
times.  Dipping  in,  she  brought  forth  a 
handful  of  coppers,  and  selected  two. 
These  she  laid  on  the  counter  with  a  sigh, 
first  feeling  of  the  bag  to  make  sure  that  it 
was  packed  hard  with  salt.  She  looked 
about  the  shop,  and  stood  a  moment  mov- 
ing a  red-stockinged  foot  in  and  out  at  the 
open  heel  of  her  wooden-soled  slipper. 

"  Your  nephew  not  here  ? "  she  remarked, 
124 


A  Race  to  the  Swift 

and  then  with  a  chuckle,  "With  the  singer, 
nek  ?  " 

"  What  singer  ?"  asked  Di  Bello. 

"  Juno." 

"  What  has  he  to  do  with  La  Superba?" 

"  More  than  you  think,"  returned  the 
yellow-visaged  beldame,  nodding  her  head 
mysteriously,  while  her  long  gold  earrings 
jingled.  "  Listen,  and  it  is  I  that  will  tell 
you  something.  Go  to  the  Caffe  of  the 
Beautiful  Sicilian  if  you  would  know  with 
whom  he  spends  his  time." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"There  it  is  that  he  meets  the  canta- 
trice." 

" Juno  ?  " 

"  Si,  signore." 

"  Satan  the  Pig  !  Bah  !  What  are  you 
saying  ? " 

"  The  truth,  signore  ;  the  truth,  I  assure 
you.  I  have  it  on  the  word  of  Lavinia  the 
waitress.  Only  yesterday  she  saw  them 
kiss." 

The  gloating  eyes  of  Sara  were  fixed 
125 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

upon  him,  and  Di  Bello  did  something  very 
unusual  for  him — he  dissembled  his  feelings. 

"  What  of  it  ? "  he  said  with  an  air  of  un- 
concern. "  Why  should  he  not  kiss  her  ? 
It  is  no  affair  of  mine." 

Though  a  good  piece  of  acting,  it  did 
not  gammon  the  keen  wits  of  Sara  the 
Frier  of  Pepper  Pods.  Taking  up  her  bag 
of  salt,  she  clattered  from  the  shop,  and 
before  long  stood  the  voluble  centre  of  a 
group  of  eager  women,  into  whose  ears  she 
poured  the  tidings  of  rival  loves  in  Casa 
Di  Bello.  Meantime  the  grocer,  waiting  for 
Bertino,  fanned  his  wrath.  When  the 
young  man  turned  up  at  the  shop  this  was 
his  greeting  : 

"Satan  the  Pig!" 

"  Why  ? "  asked  Bertino. 

"  And  you  have  the  courage  to  ask  ? 
Very  innocent  for  one  who  tries  to  rob  me 
of  the  woman  I  love.  O  traitor  ! " 

Bertino  stood  speechless  with  amaze- 
ment and  dismay.  His  good-natured,  easy- 
going uncle  prancing  about  the  place  in  a  fit 
126 


A  Race  to  the  Swift 

of  passion  was  a  sight  that  took  his  breath 
away. 

"  By  the  Egg  of  Columbus!"  Di  Bello 
continued,  raising  his  clinched  fist  and  fix- 
ing his  eyes  upon  the  loops  of  dried  sausage 
suspended  from  the  ceiling — "  by  the  Egg, 
I  swear  it,  if  you  don't  keep  away  from  that 
woman  I'll  turn  you  from  my  door — I'll 
have  your  heart's  blood  !  " 

"  What  woman  ? "  Bertino  asked  ginger- 
ly, and  with  a  feint  of  ignorance  that  was 
not  convincing. 

"  Bah  !  Don't  play  the  fool.  I  know 
all.  Remember  what  I  tell  you — keep  away 
from  her." 

Bertino  went  behind  the  counter,  put  on 
an  apron,  and  held  his  tongue.  By  degrees 
the  padrone's  ire  cooled,  until  he  became  so 
tranquil  as  to  take  a  chair. 

"  Listen,  my  nephew,"  he  said,  sprawling 
his  legs  and  thrusting  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets. "  I  will  tell  you  a  secret.  This  woman 
is  to  be  my  wife." 

"  Your  what  ?  "  gasped  Bertino. 
127 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  My  wife.  Three  months  from  yester- 
day she  will  be  Signora  Di  Bello.  I  would 
marry  her  this  very  day  but  I  promised — 
donkey  that  I  was ! — I  promised  not  to  take 
a  wife  for  three  months  ;  a  pledge  that  I 
can't  break,  for  it  was  given  on  San  Giorgio's 
Day.  Oh,  what  a  donkey  ! " 

Bertino  did  not  dare  ask  any  questions, 
but  he  resolved  that  something  should  be 
done  at  once  to  head  off  his  uncle  ;  not  an- 
other day,  nay,  not  a  single  hour,  must  pass 
until  he  and  Juno  should  be  man  and  wife. 
He  found  an  excuse  to  leave  the  shop,  and 
went  to  Juno's  humble  abode. 

"  Come  with  me  at  once,  carissima  /  " 
he  cried.  "  Come  to  the  Church  of  San 
Loretto.  It  is  open  to-day  for  masses,  and 
Father  Bernardo  is  there.  We  shall  be 
married  this  very  hour." 

"  Why  such  haste  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Ah,  my  angel,  can  you  ask  ?  I  wish 
to 'make  sure  of  you — to  know  that  you  are 
really  mine." 

Together  they  made  their  way  through 
128 


A  Race  to  the  Swift 

Mulberry,  walking  with  step  rapid  and  reso- 
lute. As  they  entered  Elizabeth  Street  and 
approached  the  portals  of  San  Loretto,  Ber- 
tino  recollected  with  a  tremor  of  fear  the 
threat  of  his  uncle  :  "  If  you  don't  keep 
away  from  that  woman  I'll  turn  you  from 
my  door — I'll  have  your  heart's  blood!" 
They  were  about  to  ascend  the  church  steps 
when  he  caught  Juno  by  the  arm  and  drew 
back. 

"  Come  away  from  here,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"  Come  away !  We  must  go  to  some 
other  church.  Here  it  is  that  the  pigs  of 
Sicilians  get  married.  It  is  no  place  for  a 
Genovese  like  me  or  a  fine  Neapolitan  like 
you.  Come,  we  shall  find  another  priest." 

In  secrecy  he  saw  his  one  chance  of  sav- 
ing himself  for  the  present  from  the  conse- 
quences of  openly  defying  Signer  Di  Bello. 
To  be  married  at  the  altar  of  San  Loretto, 
to  which  dozens  of  sharp  eyes  and  gossiping 
tongues  were  always  directed  in  prayer, 
would  be  to  proclaim  the  nuptials  to  all 
129 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Mulberry  before  vesper  bells  should  be 
rung  that  day. 

He  led  her  through  Houston  Street  and 
across  the  Bowery  to  a  rectory  in  lower 
Second  Avenue,  a  quarter  that  lies  only  a 
few  blocks  beyond  the  frontier  of  Mulberry, 
but  with  a  life  as  remote  and  distinct  from 
that  of  the  Italian  colony  as  though  a  hun- 
dred leagues  of  sea  divided  them.  A  brief 
mumbling  in  a  little  parlour,  and  they  were 
man  and  wife. 

Neither  bride  nor  bridegroom  looked 
joyous  as  they  came  forth  into  the  street 
and  moved  slowly  toward  Mulberry.  Ber- 
tino's  face  was  particularly  long.  He  was 
in  a  black  study.  Throughout  his  persistent 
courtship  he  had  promised  Juno  that  she 
should  have  a  home  in  Casa  Di  Bello  if  she 
became  his  wife.  Now  he  found  himself 
cracking  his  wits  to  contrive  a  good  excuse 
for  keeping  her  out  of  his  uncle's  sight.  If 
they  met  she  would  be  sure  to  tell  him 
of  the  marriage,  whereupon  inferno  would 
kindle.  With  a  wife  on  his  hands,  he  would 
130 


A  Race  to  the  Swift 

find  himself  homeless  and  out  of  employ- 
ment, even  if  Di  Bello's  vendetta  did  not 
remove  the  need  of  earning  a  living.  He 
dared  not  make  a  confidante  of  his  wife,  for 
to  do  so  meant  disclosure  of  the  ugly  truth 
that  he  had  cheated  her  of  the  richest  hus- 
band in  Mulberry — of  a  prize  which  he 
knew  she  had  been  eager  to  win.  His  heart 
sank  at  thought  of  the  terrible  vendetta  that 
she  might  take.  He  believed  her  capable 
of  forsaking  him  and  setting  their  union  at 
naught.  Silent  of  tongue  and  sore  bestead, 
he  moved  along  slowly,  while  passers-by  eyed 
the  majestic  woman  at  his  side.  When 
they  had  reached  St.  Patrick's  Graveyard, 
and  her  glance  fell  on  Casa  Di  Bello,  she 
said  : 

"  Now  that  we  are  married,  let  us  go  to 
your  uncle  and  tell  him,  so  that  I  may  move 
in  over  there.  When  that  is  done  we  can 
have  the  marriage  before  the  mayor,  and 
the  wedding  feast." 

"  Not  yet,"  he  said  ;  "  not  yet,  for  the 
love  of  Dio  ! " 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  Why  ?  "  she  demanded.  "  I  am  as  good 
as  any  one  in  that  house." 

"  Oh,  my  precious  one,  it  is  not  that ; 
not  that.  Listen.  There  is  my  uncle — a 
good  man,  but  strange,  strange.  When  I 
told  him  I  should  take  a  wife  he  called  me 
fool  and  got  very  angry.  He  said  I  would 
not  do  my  work  so  well  if  I  took  a  wife. 
But  you — ah,  you,  my  angel ! — I  would  not 
give  you  up  for  all  the  uncles  and  shops  in 
New  York — yes,  in  all  America." 

"  You  talk  nonsense,"  said  Juno.  "Tell 
me  why  I  should  not  live  in  Casa  Di  Bello." 

"  Well,  it  is  for  this,  carissima,  only  this  : 
I  am  afraid  to  tell  him  just  now  that  I  am 
married,  because  he  said  he  would  put  me 
out — do  you  understand  ? — said  he  would 
put  me  out  of  the  shop  and  Casa  Di  Bello 
if  I  got  married.  In  a  few  weeks— 

"  Bah  ! "  she  said,  waving  a  forefinger  in 
Neapolitan  fashion,  meaning  that  she  was 
not  to  be  taken  in.  "  I  never  believed  you 
when  you  talked  of  Casa  Di  Bello.  Do  you 
think  it  was  for  that  I  married  you  ? " 
132 


A  Race  to  the  Swift 

"Wait,  wait,  my  Juno.  Pazienza.  The 
day  will  come  when  you  will  be  padrona  of 
that  house." 

"  Enough,"  she  said.  "  I  am  tired  of  this 
nonsense.  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"  Listen,"  said  Bertino,  delighted  at  the 
success  of  his  garbled  version  of  Di  Bello's 
threat.  "  This  is  my  idea  :  You  do  not  like 
Mulberry  too  well,  nor  do  I.  Moreover, 
rents  are  very  high  here,  because  these  ani- 
mals find  it  hard  to  get  in  anywhere  else, 
and  the  landlords  rob  them.  But  with  us  it 
is  different.  We,  for  example,  are  signori, 
are  we  not  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  I  am  a  signora." 

"  Very  well.  Now  I  will  tell  you  the 
rest :  In  the  upper  city  there  are  apartments, 
small  and  fine,  that  we  could  take.  You 
know  Giacomo  Goldoni,  the  cornetist  at  La 
Scala  ?  Well,  he  lives  in  a  place  like  that, 
he  and  his  wife,  just  like  Americans." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  In  One  Hundred  and  Eleventh  Street 
of  the  East.  Do  you  know  where  that  is  ? 
133 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Well,  you  can  find  it.  To-day  you  shall  go 
and  choose  the  place.  Here  is  money,  the 
first  that  you  have  received  from  your  hus- 
band. Do  you  think  I  have  been  fool 
enough  to  give  the  money  I  brought  from 
Italy  to  the  pothouses  ?  Not  I.  When  I 
need  money  I  go  to  the  Bank  of  Risparmio. 
See  what  kind  of  a  husband  you  have ! 
Neither  you  nor  any  one  else  knows  how 
much  I  have  in  the  bank.  I  will  tell  you. 
Before  drawing  this  five  yesterday  I  had 
fifty -three  dollars." 

Juno  expressed  her  contempt  in  a  glance, 
but  she  closed  her  fingers  on  the  greenback. 

"  Very  well.  I  go  to  look  for  the  apart- 
ment. This  evening  we  meet.  Where  ? 
At  the  Caffe  of  the  Beautiful  Sicilian  ? " 

"  No,  no  ;  not  there  ! "  said  Bertino. 
"  You  must  not  come  to  Mulberry." 

"Why?"  she  demanded,  eying  him 
closely. 

He  made  the  only  answer  that  could 
have  satisfied  her  : 

"  It  is  no  place  for  such  a  signora  as  you." 
134 


A  Race  to  the  Swift 

They  appointed  another  meeting  place — 
one  that  lay  beyond  the  zone  of  Signor  Di 
Bello's  nightly  revels,  and  with  a  wave  of 
the  hand  Juno  took  leave  of  her  husband. 
He  watched  her  proudly  as  her  stately  fig- 
ure moved  toward  the  Bowery.  She  carried 
her  head  with  the  dignity  of  the  ladies  she 
had  seen  driving  in  the  Chiaja  of  Naples  on 
a  sunny  afternoon. 

Bertino  returned  to  the  shop  in  Paradise 
Park.  As  he  picked  his  way  through  the 
swarms  of  children  on  the  sidewalk  he 
thought  of  his  uncle  sitting  in  the  sunlight, 
all  unwary  that  the  prize  he  coveted  had 
passed  to  another.  And  the  elation  of  the 
conqueror  gave  a  spring  to  his  step,  and  a 
swagger,  until  he  turned  a  corner  and  be- 
held the  sign  of  the  Wooden  Bunch. 
Then  misgiving  filled  his  soul  and  restored 
his  trudging  pace,  his  peasant  gait — mis- 
giving that  the  vanquished  one  might  exact 
an  accounting. 

"Soul  of  a  lobster!"  cried  Di  Bello, 
springing  from  his  chair,  when  the  young 
135 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

man  appeared  at  the  door.  "  Where  the 
crocodile  have  you  been  ?  Animal !  To 
keep  me  waiting  like  this,  and  a  grand  game 
of  bastoni  to  be  played  at  the  Three  Gar- 
dens. By  the  Dragon,  you  are  going  too 
far!" 

He  flung  out  of  the  shop,  not  waiting  to 
hear  Bertino's  lame  excuse. 

That  evening,  after  the  shop  was  closed, 
Bertino  and  Juno  visited  a  large  instalment 
house  in  the  Bowery  and  made  their  selec- 
tion of  furniture. 

"  We  shall  not  need  much,"  he  said, 
mindful  of  his  balance  in  the  bank,  "  for  in 
a  little  while  we  shall  live  in  Casa  Di  Bello." 

"Casa  Di  Bello  !"  sneered  Juno.  "  Do 
you  think  I  am  a  fool  ? " 

Nevertheless,  when  two  months  of  liv- 
ing in  the  little  dark  flat  had  brought  her 
no  nearer  the  inside  of  the  Di  Bello  house, 
where  her  husband  continued  to  live  in 
order  to  avert  suspicion,  she  became  im- 
patient, disgusted.  The  few  hours  a  week 
that  he  could  steal  from  the  shop  to  visit 
136 


A  Race  to  the  Swift 

her  were  not  the  happiest  in  his  life.  She 
grew  sullen  and  entertained  him  with  fault- 
finding. Of  his  poverty  she  never  lost  an 
opportunity  to  twit  him,  and  called  him  a 
cheat  for  marrying  her.  At  last  she  declared 
that  she  would  not  stay  there  alone  any 
longer.  If  a  man  took  a  wife  and  could  not 
live  with  her  and  support  her  like  a  Chris- 
tian he  had  better  give  her  up.  And  he 
talked  of  money !  Why  did  he  not  bring 
her  good  things  from  the  grocery  ?  For  two 
months  she  had  lived  on  bread  and  salame 
half  the  time,  with  an  occasional  feast  of 
lupine  beans  and  veal  that  he  brought  her 
from  Mulberry.  And  what  veal !  In  Na- 
ples it  would  not  be  permitted  to  sell  such 
young  meat.  Perhaps  it  was  good  enough 
for  the  wives  of  the  Mulberry  cattle,  but  it 
would  not  do  for  her  to  live  that  way.  She 
had  been  a  fool  to  put  up  with  it  as  long  as 
she  had — a  woman  like  her  ! — when  she  could 
go  on  the  stage  and  live  as  a  signora  should. 
Yes,  she  could  get  a  place  on  the  stage,  and 
it  would  not  be  an  Italian  theatre  either. 

10  137 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Goldoni  the  cornetist  had  left  La  Scala  and 
was  playing  in  the  orchestra  of  a  Broadway 
theatre,  the  great  Titania.  The  other  day 
she  met  him,  and  she  did  not  let  on  that  she 
was  married.  See  how  well  she  could  keep 
a  secret ! — but  she  was  a  fool  for  doing  so. 
Well,  Goldoni  was  a  man.  He  said  that  he 
could  get  her  a  place  in  the  Titania  without 
any  trouble.  In  fact,  the  impresario  would 
be  glad  to  engage  her.  She  would  be  the 
finest  shape  in  the  company.  It  would  be 
twelve  dollars  a  week  sure  for  a  figure  such 
as  hers,  Signer  Goldoni  had  assured  her. 
Why,  then,  should  she  remain  at  home 
nights  waiting  for  a  good-for-nothing  of  a 
husband,  who  never  brought  her  anything 
better  than  bob  veal  ? 

Bertino  pleaded  with  her  to  be  patient 
and  all  would  end  well.  By  the  Feast  of 
San  Giovanni,  if  not  before,  it  would  be 
safe  to  reveal  the  secret  of  his  marriage, 
when,  he  could  promise  her,  his  good-tem- 
pered uncle  would  forgive  him,  and  invite 
them  both  to  make  their  home  in  Casa  Di 
138 


A  Race  to  the  Swift 

Bello.  As  for  his  aunt,  she  would  not  be 
here  to  interfere. 

"  Your  aunt  will  not  be  here  ?  "  asked  Juno, 
who  recognised  in  Carolina  her  bitterest  foe. 

"  No.  She  has  broken  her  leg,  and  will 
not  return  to  America  for  a  long  time.  The 
news  came  yesterday." 

When  Bertino  pressed  the  bell  button  of 
the  flat  a  week  afterward  the  electric  lock  of 
the  street  door  did  not  click  its  customary 
"  come  in."  For  several  minutes  he  kept  up 
a  serenade.  At  length  a  thunderous  voice 
sounded  through  the  speaking  tube  : 

"She's  out.     Get  out!" 

It  was  Juno's  first  night  on  the  stage  of 
the  Titania.  She  had  taken  the  engage- 
ment without  deeming  it  worth  while  to 
inform  her  husband.  Bertino  returned  to 
Mulberry,  at  first  greatly  alarmed  for  her 
safety,  but  in  turn  filled  with  most  dreadful 
imaginings  as  to  the  cause  of  her  absence. 
The  following  night  he  got  a  similar  response 
to  his  sonata  on  the  bell,  but,  instead  of  go- 
139 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

ing  away  in  a  half-distracted  state  of  mind, 
he  lingered  in  the  doorway,  or  paced  to  and 
fro  before  the  house.  To-night  he  was  not 
merely  a  husband  worried  because  his  wife 
was  missing.  His  alert  eye  and  grimly  pa- 
tient air  bespoke  a  more  serious  matter. 
Whether  walking,  standing,  or  sitting  on  the 
steps  he  was  careful  not  to  take  one  of  his 
hands — the  right — out  of  his  coat  pocket. 
It  was  after  midnight  when  he  caught  sight 
of  her.  The  white  glare  of  an  electric  light 
brought  her  suddenly  into  view  as  she  turned 
the  corner.  He  tightened  his  grip  on  the 
thing  in  his  pocket,  but  as  she  drew  near  and 
it  was  certain  that  she  had  no  companion 
save  a  small  valise,  he  came  forth  from  the 
shadow  in  which  he  had  crouched  when  the 
purpose  of  dealing  her  a  deadly  thrust  was 
full  upon  him.  She  started  back,  but  quick- 
ly regained  her  frigid  calm. 

"  You've  had  a  fine  wait,"  she  said. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?"  he  demanded, 
for  the  first  time  speaking  to  her  in  a  tone 
that  smacked  of  authority. 
140 


A  Race  to  the  Swift 

"  Working  and  earning  money,"  she  an- 
swered— "  money  that  you  ought  to  give 
me." 

"Working?     Where?" 

"  In  the  theatre — the  great  Titania. 
Bah  !  You  never  even  heard  of  it.  Do  you 
know  where  Broadway  is  ? " 

He  did  not  resent  her  scornful  words. 
The  motive  for  killing  her  having  passed,  he 
was  again  her  blind  worshipper.  Producing 
her  latchkey  she  opened  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said.  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you."  And  when  they  had 
entered  the  flat :  "  You  must  come  to  the 
theatre  and  walk  home  with  me  every  night 
after  the  representation.  At  the  stage  door 
you  must  wait.  There  are  beasts  who  will 
not  let  a  woman  be  when  she  is  alone  at 
night.  I  have  been  annoyed  enough." 

"Who  has  annoyed  you?"  said  Bertino, 
springing  up  and  putting  his  hand  in  the 
stiletto  pocket,  now  as  eager  to  slay  the 
offender  as  he  had  been  to  knife  her  a  few 
minutes  before. 

141 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  No  matter.  To-morrow  night  and  every 
night  you  be  there  at  the  stage  door." 

Signer  Di  Bello  sought  in  vain  to  get  a 
trace  of  Juno.  The  impresario  of  La  Scala 
could  not  give  him  any  clew.  He  visited  all 
the  concert  halls  and  singing  caffts  of  Mul- 
berry, as  well  as  the  Italian  theatres  of  Little 
Italy  in  the  Upper  East  End.  Not  a  soul 
knew  anything  about  her.  One  day  he  said 
to  Bertino  : 

"That  woman  Juno  has  flown  like  the 
bluebird  that  used  to  light  on  the  Garibaldi 
statue.  Do  you  know  where  she  is  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  You  threaten 
to  kill  me  if  I  do  not  keep  away  from  her, 
and  then  ask  me  where  she  is  ! " 

"  It  is  a  grand  mystery,"  mused  Di  Bello, 
throwing  out  his  legs  and  lying  back  in  his 
chair.  "Just  when  I  am  ready  to  marry  her 
she  takes  wing." 

"  Ah,  sz\"  said  Bertino  meditatively — "  a 
grand  mystery." 


142 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    PEACE    PRESERVED 

AFTER  Juno's  sudden  disappearance  the 
theatre  and  the  caffks  of  Mulberry  lost  their 
charm  for  Signer  Di  Bello.  He  began  to 
roam  abroad  evenings  in  quest  of  amuse- 
ment. There  came  to  him  a  newborn 
desire  to  explore  the  region  of  American 
life  that  lay  beyond  the  colony's  border. 
For  twelve  years  he  had  dwelt  in  its  heart 
and  felt  the  throb  of  the  big  city  ;  but  never 
before  had  it  struck  his  mind  to  know  more 
of  this  terra  misteriosa  than  he  could  learn 
from  the  morning  Araldo  and  the  evening 
Bolletino,  two  local  scions  of  the  corybantic 
press,  which  bawled  the  news  of  Mulberry 
in  double-column  scares,  but  only  whispered 
in  paragraphs  of  the  affairs  of  New  York. 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

With  sixty  thousand  others  Mulberry  was 
his  world.  He  had  never  sought  acquaint- 
ance with  the  great  American  monster  whose 
roar  filled  the  surrounding  air  by  day  and 
whose  million  eyes  at  night  gave  the  north- 
ern sky  a  dim,  false  dawn. 

From  visiting  Bowery  shows  he  became 
a  patron  of  the  vaudeville  theatres  farther  up 
town.  At  length  he  discovered  the  Tender- 
loin, with  its  dazzling  electric  displays  at  the 
doors  of  theatres  and  drinking  places,  its 
phantom  gaiety.  Resolved  to  sound  the 
depths  of  this  ocean  of  lights,  he  went 
along  with  a  current  that  flowed  to  the  box 
office  of  the  Titania,  where  the  glittering 
Aztec  spectacle,  "Zapeaca"  was  the  mag- 
net, charged  with  "  one  hundred  American 
beauties." 

"  By  Cristoforo  Colombo,  it  is  she  ! " 
the  grocer  exclaimed,  as  the  woman  he  had 
hunted  in  a  cityful  marched  across  the  stage, 
bringing  up  the  rear  of  a  long  column 
of  high-heeled  warriors.  Though  disguised 
in  a  tin  spear,  a  pasteboard  shield,  and  a 
144 


The  Peace  Preserved 

sheening  helmet  set  jauntily  upon  her  boun- 
teous raven  mane,  he  knew  her  at  first  sight. 
No  mistaking  that  snub  nose,  that  grand 
carriage,  the  plethora  of  her  line,  the  Eastern 
warmth  of  her  colour. 

"  Brava ! "  he  cried  out,  from  his  seat 
near  the  footlights  whenever  the  row  of 
beauties  to  which  she  belonged  showed 
themselves  in  marching  order.  It  was  a  re- 
newal of  the  transport  into  which  her  pres- 
ence had  thrown  him  when  in  solitary  pride 
she  held  the  stage  of  La  Scala  and  bleated 
"  Santa  Lucia."  To  the  jeers  of  the  people 
about  him  he  paid  no  heed,  but  gave  wild, 
vociferous  expression  to  his  delight  at  find- 
ing her  and  feasting  his  eyes  upon  her,  as 
she  stood  there  in  all  the  truth  of  the  ballet's 
scant  drapery. 

After  the  performance  he  waited  in  front 
of  the  theatre  until  the  lights  were  extin- 
guished and  the  big  doors  slammed  in  his 
face.  Well  it  was  for  the  public  peace  that 
his  education  did  not  include  a  knowledge 
of  the  stage  door,  for  had  he  gone  round  the 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

corner  to  that  entrance  not  only  would  he 
have  encountered  Juno,  but  he  would  have 
witnessed  the  infuriating  afterpiece  of  Ber- 
tino  taking  her  arm  and  carrying  her  off  to- 
ward the  East  side.  It  is  not  unlikely  that 
one  steel  blade  at  least  would  have  gleamed 
in  the  half  light  of  that  by-street.  But  his 
innocence  as  to  the  right  door  at  which  to 
await  a  lady  of  the  ballet  caused  a  post- 
ponement of  the  tragedy.  When  at  last  he 
sought  the  advice  of  a  cabman  and  was 
directed  to  the  proper  place  it  was  too 
late. 

"  Satana  porco  !  "  he  growled  as  he  started 
homeward.  "  I  am  a  grand  donkey.  This  is 
Saturday.  To-morrow  is  festa.  Two  whole 
days  must  I  go  without  seeing  her.  But  on 
Monday  night  we  shall  meet,  and  then  she 
shall  be  my  promised  wife." 

At  the  same  time  Juno  was  telling  Ber- 
tino  of  her  determination  to  go  with  the 
"  Zapeaca  "  company  in  a  tour  of  the  country. 
They  talked  as  they  moved  along  on  foot 
toward  the  Third  Avenue  Elevated.  "  It  is 
146 


The  Peace  Preserved 

only  ten  dollars  a  week,"  she  said,  "  with  all 
expenses  save  the  railroad  to  pay  ;  but  what 
would  you  have  ?  Is  it  not  better  than  living 
here  the  way  you  support  me  ?  Perhaps 
you  think  I  will  spend  my  money.  Not 
even  in  a  dream  !  A  woman  expects  her 
husband  to  support  her.  To-morrow  night, 
then,  I  go." 

"  How  long  shall  you  be  absent  ?  "  asked 
Bertino  humbly. 

"  Goldoni  says  six  months  anyway  ;  per- 
haps longer." 

"  You  will  come  back  to  me  ? " 

"Yes" — and  after  a  pause — "when  you 
can  support  me  like  a  signora." 

"  In  six  months  ! "  said  Bertino  exult- 
antly. "  Ha !  then  I  shall  be  my  own  pa- 
drone. Then  you  shall  see  what  a  man 
your  husband  is." 

"Why?" 

"Armando's  bust  will  be  here.       Don't 

you  remember  ?     The  bust  that  shall  bring 

us    both    fortune.      Patience,    patience,    my 

precious.     Mark  what  I  say  :  With  the  grand 

147 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

marble  of  the  First  Lady  of  the  Land  once 
in  my  hands  I  shall  quickly  put  my  uncle  in 
a  sack.  In  his  face  I  will  snap  my  fingers 
and  say,  '  I  beg  to  inform  you,  signore,  that 
Juno  is  my  wife.'" 

She  made  no  answer,  and  Bertino  went 
on  building  airy  mansions  of  the  golden 
harvest  to  follow  the  sale  of  the  sculpture 
then  under  way  as  well  as  that  to  be  reaped 
from  other  marbles  to  be  turned  out  of  Ar- 
mando's far-off  workshop.  His  words  affect- 
ed Juno  in  a  manner  that  he  little  kenned. 
She  had  given  herself  only  a  fugitive 
thought  'as  to  what  might  happen  when  the 
bust  should  arrive  and  Bertino  should  find 
it  an  image  of  his  own  wife  instead  of  the 
wife  of  the  President  of  the  United  States. 
When  the  critical  moment  came,  when  the 
fruit  of  her  roguery  stood  unveiled,  she  felt 
that  she  should  be  equal  to  it — that  she  could 
shrug  her  shoulders  and  meet  Bertino's  sus- 
picions with  a  simple  plea  of  ignorance,  and 
trust  to  his  believing  that  he  himself  sent  the 
wrong  photograph  by  mistake.  Now  she  per- 
148 


The  Peace  Preserved 

ceived  that  it  behooved  her  to  keep  friends 
with  him,  to  guile  him  with  affection,  else  his 
suspicion  when  he  should  discover  the  fraud 
might  take  the  cast  of  sullen  conviction,  and 
in  Mulberry  who  can  tell  what  a  husband 
may  do  with  a  false  wife,  whatever  the  shade 
of  her  duplicity  may  be  ?  Moreover,  she 
wanted  the  bust.  Her  rude  self-conceit 
thirsted  for  that  effigy  in  stone  of  her  own 
dear  self.  To  lose  it  would  be  to  miss  the 
prize  on  which  she  had  set  her  desire  when 
she  said  "  Yes"  that  day  in  the  Gaffe  of  the 
Beautiful  Sicilian. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  she  replied  when  they  stood 
on  the  Elevated  platform.  "  We  shall  put 
your  uncle  in  a  sack  and  get  along  well  to- 
gether when  the  bust  is  here." 

"  Brava,  my  wife  ! "  said  Bertino,  and 
they  entered  the  train. 

Next  day   being  the   Feast  of    Sunday, 

Bertino  and  his  uncle  met  at  the  noon  repast 

in  Casa  Di  Bello,  as  they  had  done  every 

Sunday  since  Carolina's  absence.    The  grocer 

149 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

was  in  jubilant  spirits,  unable  to  contain  his 
joy  over  the  finding  of  Juno. 

"  Ah,  nephew  mine,"  he  said,  when  An- 
gelica had  set  a  large  bowl  of  steaming  chest- 
nut soup  on  the  board  and  retired  to  her 
listening  place.  "  Not  many  days,  caro  mio, 
and  we  shall  have  a  fine  woman  at  table  with 
us.  Yes,  a  woman  truly  magnificent." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"  The  woman  who  is  to  be  my  wife.  I 
told  you  once.  Can  you  not  divine  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you,  though  it  is  a  great 
secret :  Juno  the  Superb." 

A  spoonful  of  soup  that  Bertino  was  in 
the  act  of  swallowing  took  the  wrong  course 
and  choked  him,  while  Angelica  was  thrown 
from  her  balance  at  the  head  of  the  kitchen 
stairs  and  almost  fell  to  the  bottom.  When 
Bertino  had  stopped  coughing  he  gasped: 

"Juno  the  Superb?" 

"  Yes.     Is  it  not  famous  ?  " 

"Your  wife?" 

"  Yes.     Ah,  what  joy  ! " 
150 


The  Peace  Preserved 

"  But  it  is  impossible  ! " 

"  Not  at  all,  nephew  mine.  I  have  found 
her.  I  saw  her  last  night  for  the  first  time 
since  the  Feast  of  San  Giorgio.  Ah,  how  I 
had  searched  !  It  was  in  the  theatre  that  I 
saw  her — at  the  Titania,  a  grand  spectacle. 
So  many  women,  and  beautiful !  But  not 
one  was  the  equal  of  Juno.  My  word  of 
honour  for  that.  Well,  I  waited  after  the 
representation,  but  did  not  see  her.  To- 
morrow night,  though,  I  shall  say  to  her  : 
'  Juno,  be  my  wife.  In  three  months  come 
to  my  house,  to  Casa  Di  Bello.'  These 
words  will  I  say  to  her,  and  I  shall  wait  at 
the  stage  door  until  she  comes  out." 

"  You  will  wait  many  months,  then," 
said  Bertino  to  himself  with  a  smothered 
chuckle  as  he  fell  upon  a  patty  of  codfish 
that  Angelica  had  just  brought  in. 

"  Grand  trouble,  grand  trouble,"  sighed 
Angelica,  as  she  prepared  the  after-dinner 
zabaglioni*  for  her  master.  "If  the  signo- 

*  An  Italian  eggnog,  served  hot. 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

rina  were  here  he  would  not  dare  bring  her 
to  the  house.  And  when  she  comes  and 
finds  the  singer  has  been  in  Casa  Di  Bello  ! 
O  Maria — grandissimo  trouble  ! " 

In  the  evening  Bertino  accompanied 
Juno  to  the  Grand  Central  Depot,  whence 
she  left  for  Buffalo  with  the  rest  of  the  hun- 
dred American  beauties  of  the  "Zapeaca" 
aggregation. 

On  Tuesday  morning  Bertino  regarded 
his  uncle  quizzically  across  the  breakfast 
table,  but  of  his  second  fruitless  visit  to 
the  Titania's  stage  door  the  signore  was  as 
silent  as  the  figure  of  San  Patrizio  that 
looked  down  upon  Casa  Di  Bello  from  the 
architrave  of  the  church  on  the  opposite  side 
of  Mulberry  Street.  And  for  many  a  day 
thereafter  not  a  word  did  he  utter  concern- 
ing any  magnificent  woman  that  was  to  be- 
come his  wife. 


152 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    PEACE    DISTURBED 

THE  bluebird  came  again  to  perch  on 
Garibaldi's  cap,  the  baby  maples  put  forth 
their  leaves,  and  Signer  Di  Bello  told  Ber- 
tino  it  was  time  to  give  the  Wooden  Bench 
a  new  coat  of  yellow.  Once  more  the  fire- 
escapes  on  either  side  of  Corso  di  Mulberry 
bloomed  with  potted  geraniums ;  glisten- 
ing radishes  lent  their  vernal  blush  to  the 
vegetable  stalls,  and  the  thoughts  of  Sara 
the  Frier  of  Pepper  Pods  turned  to  summer 
profits.  The  building  trades  had  set  the 
winter  idlers  to  work,  and  the  Alley  of  the 
Moon  resounded  no  longer  with  the  wild 
shouts  of  mora  players.  The  hokey-pokey 
man,  tiding  over  the  cold  months  with  an 
ancient  hand  organ,  yearned  to  put  away 
153 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

The  Blue  Danube  and  The  Marseillaise,  and 
wheel  out  his  gorgeous  ice-cream  cart.  The 
old  gondolier,  selling  pine-cone  seeds  at  the 
foot  of  China  Hill,  could  leave  his  toe- 
toaster  at  home  now,  and  let  the  May  sun- 
shine economize  the  charcoal. 

Bertino  mixed  the  paint,  selected  a  cheap 
brush  from  the  stock  of  the  shop,  and  set  to 
work  on  the  Bunch.  It  is  doubtful  that  he 
heard  the  swish,  swish  of  the  brush.  His 
thoughts  were  of  Juno.  Her  absence  had 
extended  long  over  the  six  months,  and  for 
more  than  thirty  days  he  had  not  heard  from 
her.  There  was  no  excuse  for  this  neglect, 
he  reasoned,  since  her  education  had  been 
so  liberal  that  she  could  spell  and  write  as 
well  as  any  woman  in  Mulberry.  Of  the 
few  letters  received  from  her,  each  had  con- 
tained a  tale  of  woe — the  woe  of  a  ballet 
lady  striving  to  live  on  the  road  with  a  sal- 
ary of  ten  dollars  a  week.  The  missives, 
rich  in  terms  of  endearment,  always  touched 
his  pocket  as  well  as  his  heart,  and  by  return 
mail  he  never  failed  to  send  her  a  dollar  or 
154 


The  Peace  Disturbed 

two.  But  why  had  she  been  silent  this  last 
month  of  the  tour,  instead  of  writing  to  tell 
him  where  to  meet  her  when  she  should 
reach  the  city  ?  Already  she  ought  to  be 
here.  What  if  she  never  came  back — if  she 
forsook  him  ?  In  the  shock  of  this  terrible 
thought  he  upset  the  pail  of  yellow  just  as 
Signor  Di  Bello  stepped  out  of  the  shop. 

"  Soul  of  a  cat !  "  exclaimed  the  grocer, 
the  toe  of  one  of  his  black  shoes  tipped 
with  the  paint.  "  What  the  rhinoceros  are 
you  about  ?  Gran  Dio,  what  stupendous 
stupidity  ! " 

Re-entering  the  shop,  he  cleaned  off  the 
paint,  fuming  the  while  and  growling. 
Then  he  flew  out,  scowling  at  Bertino  as 
he  passed,  and  made  straight  for  the  Gaffe 
of  the  Three  Gardens. 

"  The  monkey  ! "  said  Bertino  to  himself. 
"When  the  bust  arrives  I'll  be  rid  of  him." 

A  moment  afterward  the  letter   carrier 

handed  him  a  large  envelope  addressed  in 

a   big,  round  hand  to    "  Bertino   Manconi, 

Esq."     It  was  from  a  customhouse  agent, 

155 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

announcing  the  arrival  of  the  bust,  and 
offering  to  attend  to  the  business  of  clearing 
it.  To  this  end  it  would  be  necessary  for 
Bertino  to  forward  the  amount  of  the  duty, 
a  hundred  and  forty  dollars.  He  put  the  let- 
ter in  his  pocket,  filled  with  apprehension  of 
trouble,  for  his  English  was  so  weak  that  he 
could  not  make  out  the  meaning  of  the  part 
about  the  duty,  though  he  suspected  that 
the  sum  of  a  hundred  and  forty  dollars  was 
in  some  way  required  of  him.  That  even- 
ing, after  he  had  lugged  in  the  Wooden 
Bunch  and  locked  the  shop  door,  he  took 
the  mysterious  paper  to  Signor  Tomato, 
who  told  him  the  awful  truth. 

"  It  must  be  a  great  work  of  art,"  said 
the  banker  ;  "  very  valuable." 

"  Valuable  ! "  said  Bertino.  "  Ah,  caro 
mio,  if  you  only  knew  !  Well,  I  will  tell 
you.  It  is  a  bust  of  her  Majesty  the  Presi- 
dentessa." 

"  What  Presidentessa  ?  " 

"  Of  the  United  States." 

"  St.  Januarius  !     Is  it  possible  ?" 
156 


The  Peace  Disturbed 

One  hundred  and  forty  dollars !  The  sum 
rose  like  an  impassable  mountain  between 
Bertino  and  the  hopes  he  had  cherished  so 
long  and  fervidly.  As  well  have  been  forty 
thousand.  He  could  not  pay  the  duty. 
Marriage  had  eaten  up  the  savings  brought 
from  Italy  and  what  he  had  earned  since. 
When  Signor  Tomato  told  him  that  the 
Government  would  retain  the  marble  until 
the  impost  were  paid,  he  blotted  out  the 
poor  lad's  fondest  anticipations — his  dreams 
of  release  from  Signor  Di  Bello  and  the 
misery  of  his  secret  marriage,  the  freedom 
to  say  to  his  uncle,  "  Juno  is  my  wife."  To 
the  bust  he  had  looked  forward  as  to  a  loyal 
friend,  who  should  come  some  day  to  lift 
him  to  the  plane  whereon  a  man  ought  to 
stand.  But  now  that  the  friend  was  near, 
some  power  which  he  comprehended  but 
vaguely  had  clapped  her  in  a  prison,  from 
which  the  future  held  no  promise  of  letting 
her  go.  There  came  over  him  the  terrible 
throbbing  of  blood  and  the  fire  of  brain  that 
he  felt  the  night  he  crouched,  burning  with 
157 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

suspicion,  in  the  doorway  with  a  ready  knife 
waiting  for  Juno.  He  could  not  have  an- 
swered if  asked  just  now  whom  he  wished 
to  kill.  Some  infernal  prank  was  playing 
at  his  expense,  and  the  time  had  come  to 
end  it.  A  strange  calm  possessed  him  as  he 
began  to  cast  about  for  the  joker.  He  had 
been  walking  in  Mulberry  Street.  At  the 
corner  of  Spring  Street  he  entered  the  Gaffe 
of  the  Three  Gardens.  Dropping  into  a 
chair  near  the  door,  he  ordered  a  glass  of 
Marsala ;  but  before  the  waiter  had  re- 
turned with  the  wine,  Bertino  sprang  up 
and  darted  out  of  the  place.  At  a  table 
in  the  caffVs  depth  he  had  seen  Juno  and 
Signor  Di  Bello  with  their  heads  together ! 
Holy  blood  of  the  angels  ! 

No  need  of  looking  further  for  the 
joker.  His  wife  returns  after  six  months, 
does  not  let  her  husband  know,  and  goes 
first  to  meet  another.  Yes,  the  prank  has 
gone  far  enough. 

It  was  only  a  block  to  Casa  Di  Bello. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  was  there  and  in  his 
158 


The  Peace  Disturbed 

room.     When  he  came  into  the  street  again 
he  had  his  right  hand  in  his  coat  pocket. 

The  meeting  of  Juno  and  Signor  Di 
Bello  came  about  in  this  manner :  The 
signore  was  walking  in  Mulberry  Street, 
on  his  way  to  the  caffk  to  smoke  an  after- 
dinner  Cavour,  and  help  some  good  com- 
rades empty  a  flask  of  Chianti.  Suddenly 
he  stopped,  stood  still,  his  eyes  staring  and 
his  mouth  a  gulf  of  astonishment. 

"  By  the  Egg  of  Columbus ! "  he  ex- 
claimed. "  It  is  she,  or  I  am  dreaming  ! " 

There  she  was,  moving  toward  him  on 
the  same  side  of  the  street,  dressed  no  bet- 
ter than  when  he  last  came  face  to  face  with 
her,  but  her  grand  air  not  a  whit  impaired. 

"  At  last,  at  last  I  find  you  ! "  he  cried, 
catching  up  her  hand  and  kissing  it  with  a 
loud  smack.  "Ah!  the  good  God  knows 
how  I  have  hunted  for  you.  But  joy,  joy  ! 
I  find  you  !  I  see  you  !  My  eyes  look  into 
yours  !  Come,  away  from  here !  Ah,  the 
Three  Gardens !  Let  us  enter.  I  have 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

something  to  say — something  very  impor- 
tant." 

He  drew  her  into  the  caffk,  and  sought  a 
table  far  from  the  door. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  say  to  me  ? " 
asked  Juno.  She  had  responded  not  at  all 
to  Signor  Di  Bello's  passionate  greeting. 

"  Ah,  my  angel !  I  want  to  say  to  you 
what  I  would  have  said  long  ago  if  I  had 
found  you.  The  hunt  I  have  had  !  And 
once  when  I  caught  sight  of  you,  it  was 
only  to  have  you  vanish  again  like  a  wine 
bubble.  Where  have  you  been  ?  How 
beautiful  you  are  !  Oh,  the  grand  hunt ! " 

"  Why  have  you  hunted  for  me  ? "  she 
said,  releasing  her  hand  from  his,  and  mov- 
ing her  chair. 

"To  offer  you  what  you  demanded — a 
wedding  ring." 

"  You  wish  to  make  me  your  wife  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Before  the  Madonna,  it  is  true  ! 
Months  and  months  ago  I  was  ready." 

For  a  moment  Juno  was  silent,  contem- 
plative. Then  she  said,  eying  him  steadily  : 
1 60 


The  Peace  Disturbed 

"  Would  you  have  married  me  before  I 
left  Mulberry?" 

"  Yes  ;  Dio  my  witness." 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  and 
say  so  ? " 

"  But  I  could  not  find  you.  My  nephew, 
Bertino,  will  tell  you  that  I  speak  truth.  I 
told  him  that  I  intended  to  make  you  my 
wife." 

"  When  did  you  tell  him  that?"  she  asked 
quickly,  leaning  forward  and  awaiting  the 
answer  eagerly,  while  Signer  Di  Bello  strove 
to  recollect. 

"  Ah,  yes,  now  I  have  it,"  he  said  at 
length.  "  I  remember  because  it  was  the 
day  after  my  sister  Carolina  sailed  for  Ge- 
nova  —  two  days  after  the  Feast  of  San 
Giorgio,  my  saint." 

The  recollection  rose  clear  to  Juno  that 
it  was  on  the  day  following  Carolina's  de- 
parture that  she  and  Bertino  went  to  the 
little  rectory  in  Second  Avenue.  And 
equally  vivid  to  her  consciousness  stood 
forth  the  inflaming  truth  that  Bertino,  with 
161 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

full  knowledge  of  Signer  Di  Bello's  purpose 
to  take  her  for  wife,  had  hastened  their 
union  in  order  to  checkmate  his  rival.  So 
this  moneyless  clerk  had  tricked  her  into 
marriage,  and  cheated  her  of  a  rich  husband  ! 

" Maledetto .' '"  she  said  in  a  half-stifled 
voice.  At  the  same  instant  there  flashed  in 
her  brain  a  resolve  to  rid  herself  of  Bertino. 

"  Why  maledetto  f  "  asked  the  signore. 
"  Do  you  not  accept  my  offer  ?  " 

"  Another  time  I  will  give  you  my  an- 
swer," she  said,  rising.  "  I  must  go." 

They  stood  outside,  he  holding  her  hand 
and  looking  up  into  her  face  with  worship- 
ful eyes.  Suddenly  she  drew  back,  and 
without  a  parting  word  took  herself  off.  A 
face  that  she  had  seen  in  a  near-by  doorway 
made  her  eager  to  end  the  interview.  She 
had  gone  but  a  few  paces  when  Bertino 
was  by  her  side. 

"  So  you  are  here,  and  putting  horns  on 

your  husband  ?  "  he  said,  gripping  her  arm. 

"Welcome,   signora,   welcome!"      A  smile 

of  hellish  mockery  played  on  his  livid  face. 

162 


The  Peace  Disturbed 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  she  pleaded,  a  tremor 
in  her  voice,  because  she  knew  her  race. 

He  laughed,  and  gripped  her  arm  tighter. 

"  I  know,"  he  said.  "  You  want  a  rich 
man."  Thtn,  with  his  lips  close  to  her  ear  : 
"  Do  you  think  you  will  live  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,"  she  said,  still  plead- 
ing. "  What  can  a  woman  do  when  a  man 
plays  the  fool  and  annoys  her  ?  " 

"  He  annoys  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  seizing  her  chance. 
"  If  you  were  a  man  you  would  make  him 
leave  me  alone.  I  do  not  want  him." 

"  I  will  kill  the  dog  ! "  said  Bertino,  let- 
ting go  of  her  arm.  A  moment  he  regarded 
her  with  the  old  tenderness,  but  a  black  look 
settled  again  on  his  face,  and  he  asked  slow- 
ly, "  Why  did  you  not  let  me  know  you 
were  back  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  in  the  city  an  hour. 
The  shop  was  closed.  Luigia  the  Garlic 
Woman  will  tell  you  that  I  asked  her  if  she 
knew  where  you  had  gone.  I  was  going  to 
send  a  note  to  Casa  Di  Bello.  We  met  in 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

the  street  and  —  he  annoyed  me."  She 
thought  now  only  of  saving  herself. 

"  By  the  heart  of  Mary  !"  he  said,  "this 
shall  stop.  I  will  go  to  him  and  tell  him 
you  are  my  wife." 

"No,  no  !  Don't  do  that.  Wait — wait 
until  you  are  rid  of  him — until  you  are  your 
own  padrone — until  the  bust  is  here  and  you 
have  sold  it  and  are  a  free  man." 

"  The  bust  ?  "  he  said  hopelessly.  "  It  is 
here,  but  as  well  might  it  have  remained  in 
Armando's  studio." 

"  What  ?"  she  said.  "  It  is  here  ?  Where  ? 
Let  me  see  it." 

"  No  ;  I  can  not.  The  Government  has 
it,  and  will  keep  it  until  I  pay  one  hundred 
and  forty  dollars.  Seven  hundred  lire! 
Gesu  Bambino  !  Where  shall  I  get  them  ?  " 

As  they  walked  on  he  recounted  the  dis- 
tress that  had  overtaken  the  supposed  First 
Lady  of  the  Land ;  her  captivity  in  the 
hands  of  revenue  officials,  and  his  inability 
to  pay  the  kingly  ransom  demanded.  This 
news  was  a  cut  and  thrust  at  the  hope 
164 


The  Peace  Disturbed 

whereon  Juno's  crude  self-love  had  fed  for 
many  a  month,  and  it  killed  the  solitary 
motive  that  made  her  hold  to  Bertino.  By 
neither  word  nor  sign,  however,  did  she  be- 
tray her  disgust  and  anger  ;  she  even  feigned 
sympathy,  and  bade  him  be  of  good  cheer, 
saying  tenderly  that  ill  fortune  would  not 
dog  them  forever;  that  by  luck  or  pluck 
they  should  get  possession  of  the  bust,  and 
carry  out  his  plan  for  money-making.  These 
were  the  first  heartening  words  she  had  ever 
spoken  to  him — the  first  kindness  he  could 
recall  as  coming  from  her  lips.  Despite  the 
black  cloud  that  had  risen  so  suddenly  from 
behind  the  customhouse,  a  sweet  rapture 
filled  his  soul.  What  mattered  it  all  ? — his 
wife  loved  him.  Their  joys  and  griefs  were 
one.  The  loneliness  that  had  burdened  his 
spirit  since  the  day  of  his  marriage  departed, 
and  his  heart  lost  its  bitterness. 

"  True,  my  precious,"  he  said,  pressing  her 
hand,  "we  love  each  other,  and  shall  know 
how  to  manage  in  spite  of  the  Government." 

At  the  same  time  Juno  said  to  herself, 
165 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  How  can  I  get  rid  of  the  fool  and  marry 
his  uncle  ?  " 

They  came  to  a  halt  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Alley  of  the  Moon,  a  wide  passage  between 
two  tenements  that  led  to  a  rear  court 
heaped  with  push-carts  laid  up  for  the  night. 
Halfway  up  the  alley  a  large  gas  lamp  with 
a  sputtering  light  hung  over  a  doorway.  On 
its  green  glass  showed  the  words,  Restau- 
rant of  Santa  Lucia.  In  three  dingy  rooms 
above,  Luigia  the  Garlic  Woman  lived  with 
a  lodger  known  to  the  public  of  Mulberry 
as  Chiara  the  Hair  Comber.  The  latter 
had  her  shop  and  living  apartment  in  the 
"  front "  room,  looking  on  the  alley,  and 
directly  over  the  green  light,  which  shed  its 
rays  on  her  sign,  Hair  Combing  in  Signora 
Style,  Two  Cents.  The  remaining  room 
of  the  trio  had  been  engaged  that  day  by 
Juno,  who  had  merely  ribbed  when  she  told 
Bertino  that  she  had  been  in  town  only  an 
hour.  It  was  the  same  humble  chamber  she 
had  occupied  during  her  brief  career  of  star- 
hood  on  the  stage  of  La  Scala. 
1 66 


The  Peace  Disturbed 

"  I  have  come  here  because  it  costs  only 
twenty  soldi  a  day,"  she  said  to  Bertino,  "and 
here  I  shall  remain  until — until  we  can  do 
better.  Good  night,  my  dear  husband. 
Courage.  Be  allegro,  and  our  fortune  will 
sing." 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  allegro  I  will  be.  Good  night, 
my  precious  wife.  Until  to-morrow." 

In  the  solitude  of  her  dreary  little  coop, 
while  the  hoarse  shouts  of  mora  players  in 
the  restaurant  below  sounded  in  her  ears, 
Juno  set  her  wits  calmly  to  the  knotty  puzzle 
that  the  day  had  brought  forth  :  How  to  get 
rid  of  her  husband  that  she  might  accept 
Signer  Di  Bello's  offer  of  marriage  ?  A  few 
grains  of  poison  dropped  in  wine  for  Bertino 
to  drink  would  accomplish  the  needful  state 
of  widowhood,  but  this  method,  she  discerned, 
had  its  faults.  It  was  likely  to  bring  man- 
hunters  from  the  Central  Office  about  one's 
head,  and  detectives  were  given  to  putting 
awkward  questions.  Moreover,  they  had  a 
trick  of  locking  up  persons  whose  answers 
did  not  suit  them.  No  ;  in  a  strictly  private 
167 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

matter  of  this  kind  it  would  never  do  to  have 
the  police  meddling.  That  might  spoil  all. 
She  thought  of  other  plans  of  removal  that 
she  had  heard  talked  about  in  the  Porto 
quarter  of  Naples.  And  while  she  con- 
sidered these  there  darted  into  her  mind  one 
of  those  mystic  shafts  of  memory  that  come 
unbidden  by  cognate  suggestion.  It  was  a 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  she  and  Bertino, 
walking  in  the  suburbs,  stood  upon  Wash- 
ington Bridge.  From  the  height  of  the 
great  span  she  looked  down  again  on  the 
slopes  of  the  Harlem  Valley  beautiful  in 
the  gold  and  flame  of  autumn  ;  the  sedge 
marshes  that  waved  to  the  temperate  wind, 
and  far  below,  growing  narrow  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  silvery  ribbon  of  water  that  glim- 
mered yet  faintly  in  the  gloam  of  sunset. 
It  was  one  of  those  Sundays  that  Bertino 
brought  her  a  package  of  bob  veal,  and  she 
recalled  the  desire  that  had  seized  her  to 
throw  him  over  the  parapet.  Had  she  done 
so  in  the  darkness  that  soon  fell  not  a  soul 
would  have  known.  What  she  could  have 
1 68 


The  Peace  Disturbed 

done  then  she  could  do  now.  By  this  method 
there  would  be  no  police  knocking  at  one's 
door  and  prying  into  secrets.  The  quicker 
he  were  out  of  the  way  the  better,  and  next 
Sunday,  if  no  moon  shone,  the  thing  could 
be  done.  With  deep  satisfaction  she  viewed 
her  brawny  arms  and  stalwart  frame  and  felt 
sure  of  the  strength  needful  to  execute  the 
task  without  bungling.  Then  she  went  to 
bed  and  slept  soundly. 

But  the  morrow  had  in  its  teeth  a  fine 
marplot  for  her  little  tragedy.  It  happened 
in  the  evening  in  this  wise  :  The  shutters  of 
the  shop  put  up,  Bertino  hastened  to  the 
Restaurant  of  Santa  Lucia,  where  Juno  had 
promised  to  await  him.  He  opened  the 
door,  and  what  he  saw  caused  him  to  pause 
on  the  threshold,  but  for  only  a  moment. 
She  was  not  alone.  Seated  by  her  side  on 
the  rough  wooden  bench  that  flanked  the 
long  oil-clothed  table  was  Signer  Di  Bello. 
Their  backs  were  turned  to  the  door,  but 
Bertino  knew  both  at  first  glance.  On  the 

opposite  side  of  the  board  the  gaslight  fell 
12  169 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

upon  a  row  of  dusky  faces,  into  the  caverns 
of  which  large  quantities  of  spaghetti  coiled 
about  forks  were  being  despatched.  In  other 
parts  of  the  low-ceiled  room,  muggy  with 
smoke  of  two-cent  cigars,  coatless  men,  en- 
gaged in  furious  combats  at  cards,  shouted 
"and  rained  sledge-hammer  blows  on  the 
tables.  Before  any  one  had  seen  him  enter, 
Bertino  sprang  across  the  floor  like  a  jaguar 
and  snatched  from  his  uncle's  hand  a  knife 
with  which  he  was  in  the  act  of  conveying 
a  bit  of  sheep's-milk  cheese  to  his  mouth. 
Then  without  ado  the  gudgeon  who  believed 
that  his  wife  was  annoyed  fell  to  the  per- 
formance of  a  husband's  duty.  It  was  a  wild 
thrust,  but  well  enough  aimed  to  have  found 
a  mortal  course  had  the  tool  been  of  the 
standard  pattern  used  in  Mulberry  for  odd 
jobs  of  this  kind — the  long  thin  steel,  fine 
tempered,  and  needlelike  of  point.  As  it 
chanced,  Signor  Di  Bello's  left  shoulder 
blade  was  stabbed  flesh  deep,  and  a  second 
lunge  only  slit  his  coat  sleeve,  because  he 
dropped  sidewise  out  of  harm's  way  just  as 
170 


The  Peace  Disturbed 

Bertino  brought  down  the  knife  again. 
Every  eye  in  the  restaurant  had  witnessed 
the  second  blow  and  the  fall  of  Signor  Di 
Bello  from  the  end  of  the  bench,  so  the  con- 
clusion was  instant  and  general  that  the  odd 
job  had  been  finished. 

"  Fly  ! "  they  cried,  one  and  all,  rising  and 
pointing  to  the  door.  "  Your  work  is  done." 

Bertino  stood  a  moment,  grasping  the 
knife  and  looking  at  Juno  ;  then  he  flung  it 
down  and  made  for  the  door.  One  of  the 
card  players  held  it  open  for  him  as  he  passed 
out ;  for  the  vendetta  is  a  man's  sacred  right 
—a  strictly  private  matter  to  be  settled  by 
him  in  his  own  way,  free  of  outside  interfer- 
ence. Enough  that  he  use  the  genteel  knife 
and  not  the  clumsy  pistol,  which  is  seldom 
sure  of  its  mark,  and  brings  the  police  to 
make  trouble  for  one's  friends. 


171 


CHAPTER   XIV 

YELLOW    BOOTS    AND    ORANGE    BLOSSOMS 

NEVER  had  a  knife-play  produced  such 
general  commotion  in  Mulberry.  Though 
the  motive  for  a  removal  was  an  affair  where- 
with outsiders  seldom  concerned  themselves, 
the  whole  colony  thirsted  in  this  distinguished 
instance  to  know  the  wherefore  of  Bertino's 
desire  to  have  his  uncle's  life.  This  was  a 
tidal  wave  of  opportunity  for  Sara  the  Frier 
of  Pepper  Pods,  and  splendidly  she  rode 
upon  it  to  renewed  fortune.  For  months 
she  had  eaten  the  wormwood  of  a  dishonoured 
oracle.  She  had  told  the  people  that  rival 
loves  dwelt  beneath  the  roof  of  Casa  Di 
Bello,  and  that  some  day  grand  trouble  would 
be  the  fruit ;  but  as  time  wore  on  and  the 
volcano  gave  no  hint  of  eruption  Sara's  pa- 
172 


Yellow  Boots  and  Orange  Blossoms 

trons  flung  the  prophecy  in  her  teeth  and 
bought  their  fried  pepper  pods  of  an  upstart 
competitor  from  the  Porta  del  Carmine  of 
Naples.  Now  she  was  able  to  brush  the 
under  side  of  her  chin  with  the  back  of  her 
hand  when  the  aforetime  scoffers  passed,  and 
ask  triumphantly,  "  Who  was  it,  my  stupid 
one,  that  foretold  grand  trouble  in  Casa  Di 
Bello  ? "  No  longer  could  her  soothsaying 
power  be  doubted,  and  the  morning  after  the 
letting  of  Signor  Di  Bello's  blood  many  an 
old  customer,  eager  for  news,  returned  to 
Sara's  frying  pan,  which  sizzled  all  day  with 
the  steady  rush  of  trade.  In  the  singsong 
staccato  of  Avelino  she  told  all  and  much  to 
boot  of  what  she  knew  touching  the  great 
scandal.  Who  but  she  had  gone  to  Signor 
Di  Bello  and  told  him  how  Bertino  had  been 
seen  to  kiss  the  singer,  and  who  but  she  had 
seen  the  stiletto  that  her  words  had  caused 
to  gleam  in  his  eye  ?  "  But  it  was  the  other 
that  played  the  knife,"  her  listeners  would 
observe,  critically.  This  was  Sara's  cue  to 
nod  her  head  mysteriously,  say  "  No  matter," 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

and  look  wiser  than  the  plaster  cast  of  Dante 
that  brooded,  yellow  with  age  and  dusty,  in 
the  window  of  Signor  Sereno  the  Under- 
taker. And  no  more  light  could  any  one 
in  Mulberry  shed  on  the  matter,  for  Juno 
and  Bertino  had  made  excellent  work  of 
guarding  the  secret  of  their  marriage. 

Public  interest  in  the  episode  declined 
when,  after  one  day  of  closure,  the  shutters 
were  taken  down  and  business  went  on  as 
usual  at  the  Sign  of  the  Wooden  Bunch. 
A  new  assistant,  to  take  the  place  of  the 
fugitive  Bertino,  was  on  hand  ;  so  was  Signor 
Di  Bello,  who  looked  not  a  hair  the  worse 
for  the  inexpert  carving  of  which  he  had 
been  the  subject.  While  the  patrons  came 
and  went  he  sat  near  the  entrance,  sprawled 
in  his  low  chair,  preoccupied,  but  answering 
with  a  grunt  the  many  inquiries  about  his 
health.  The  etiquette  of  Mulberry  permits 
no  closer  reference  than  this  to  removal 
matters.  A  subject  of  vast  import  and  de- 
manding the  grocer's  instant  attention  had 
sprouted  that  morning.  It  was  in  a  let- 
174 


Yellow  Boots  and  Orange  Blossoms 

ter  received  from  Carolina.  He  had  just 
reached  a  conclusion — a  fact  he  betokened 
by  dealing  himself  a  smart  slap  on  the  knee 
—when  the  form  of  Juno  appeared  between 
him  and  the  sunshine  that  poured  in  at  the 
shop  door. 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  my  angel ! "  he 
cried,  springing  up,  but  quickly  pulling  a 
grimace  of  pain  as  the  wound  in  the  shoulder 
gave  a  twinge.  "Ah  !  what  good  fortune  ! 
You  are  here,  and  so  am  I.  See  what  kind 
of  a  man  is  Signor  Di  Bello  !  To  me  a 
knife  in  the  shoulder  is  a  trifle.  Already  I 
am  well  enough  to  go  with  you  to  the 
church.  Are  you  ready,  mia  vita  f  " 

"Wait  a  few  days,"  she  said,  with  her 
frigid  calm,  "then  I  will  tell  you." 

" Porco  Diavolo !  Wait,  wait!  Always 
wait.  I  tell  you  I  can  not  wait." 

"Why?" 

"  I  have  my  reason." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Ah!  carina,  don't  you  know?  Well, 
it  is  because  I  can  not  live  without  you." 
175 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

He  said  it  with  his  upturned  eyes  pouring 
forth  a  sea  of  adoration.  Still  it  was  only 
half  the  truth.  Had  he  disclosed  the  other 
half  he  would  have  told  of  his  sister's  letter 
saying  that  she  intended  to  sail  for  New 
York  within  a  week.  His  spirit  had  quaked 
at  the  thought  of  bringing  a  wife  to  Casa 
Di  Bello  when  the  redoubtable  Carolina 
should  be  on  the  ground,  and  the  conviction 
grew  upon  him  that  when  the  moment  came 
he  should  not  be  able  to  muster  the  courage 
needed  for  such  an  enterprise.  Wherefore 
he  resolved  to  wed  Juno  and  plant  her  in 
Casa  Di  Bello  in  advance  of  Carolina's  re- 
entrance  upon  the  scene. 

"  You  have  your  reason  for  not  waiting," 
she  said,  impressed  not  at  all  by  his  amatory 
demonstration.  "  Good.  I  have  my  reason 
for  waiting." 

She  walked  out  of  the  shop  without  say- 
ing more,  leaving  him  wondering  if,  after 
all,  he  were  going  to  lose  her.  As  she 
made  her  way  through  the  hordes  of  Mul- 
berry she  was  the  target  of  every  eye  and 
176 


Yellow  Boots  and  Orange  Blossoms 

tongue.  Men  gazed  at  her  in  admiration 
and  women  pelted  her  with  scornful  darts, 
because  of  her  proud  bearing  as  well  as  her 
coquetry  that  had  set  blood  against  blood. 

"  A  rogue  of  a  woman,"  said  a  brown 
daughter  of  Sicily,  fanning  the  flies  from 
her  naked  babe. 

"  Rather.  Who  knows  what  she  is  or 
where  she  came  from  ?  " 

To  all  of  this  and  much  more  Juno 
moved  on  in  haughty  disregard.  At  the 
mouth  of  the  Alley  of  the  Moon  she  was 
greeted  with  profit-receiving  deference  by 
her  landlady,  Luigia  the  Garlic  Woman, 
who  handed  her  a  letter.  Bertino's  writing  ! 
Seated  on  the  bed  in  her  darkling  cubicle 
upstairs,  she  read  the  missive,  which  was 
postmarked  Jamaica,  Long  Island  : 

CARA  JUNO  :  Did  I  kill  him  ?  Address 
Post  Office,  Jamaica,  Long  Island.  B. 

For   a  moment   she   sat  staring   at    but 
not    seeing   a   gaudy    print    of    the    Sistine 
Madonna  that  hung  in  a  faint  shaft  of  light. 
177 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Then  she  sprang  up  and  hurried  down  the 
narrow  staircase  to  the  restaurant.  Seated 
in  the  place  on  the  long  bench  that  Signer 
Di  Bello  occupied  when  Bertino  broke  up 
their  little  meeting,  she  called  for  writing 
materials  and  penned  these  lines  : 

CARO  BERTINO  :  Your  uncle  is  very  low. 
Will  write  soon.  J. 

As  she  carried  the  letter  to  the  red  box 
on  the  corner  her  stoical  face  gave  no  token 
of  satisfaction  felt  by  reason  of  the  simple 
but  clean  solution  of  a  vexed  problem  which 
Bertino's  letter  had  supplied.  Ten  minutes 
later  she  stood  in  the  doorway  of  Signor  Di 
Bello's  shop. 

"  Ah,  angelo  mio,  welcome  again  ! "  was 
his  greeting.  Then  with  an  air  of  secrecy  : 
"  But  sh—  — !  sh—  — !  Not  a  word  here. 
That  boy  !  His  ears  are  very  large  and  his 
tongue  is  long.  Every  word  we  said  before 
he  heard.  Come,  let  us  go  for  a  promenade." 

They  crossed  to  Paradise  Park  and 
mounted  the  broad  staircase  to  the  pavilion 
178 


Yellow  Boots  and  Orange  Blossoms 

where  the  band  plays,  and  took  seats  in  a 
corner  apart  from  the  gabbling  women  and 
their  swarms  of  yellow  children.  Without 
ado  she  came  to  the  point : 

"  My  answer  is  ready.  I  will  be  your 
wife." 

"Joy  !"  he  cried.  "  But  it  must  be  at 
once.  Within  the  week.  The  next  Feast 
of  Sunday." 

"  The  Feast  of  Sunday." 

"  Ah,  what  a  wedding  it  shall  be  !  The 
finest  ever  seen  in  Mulberry.  Listen,  mia 
diletta,  and  I  will  give  you  my  idea.  In  an 
open  carriage,  with  white  and  purple  plumes 
in  the  horses'  heads,  we  shall  go  to  the  Church 
of  San  Patrizio.  Shall  it  be  San  Patrizio 
or  San  Loretto  ?  For  me  San  Patrizio  is 
most  agreeable." 

"  For  me  too,"  said  Juno.  "  At  San 
Loretto  one  finds  too  many  Sicilian  pigs." 

"  You  are  right.  In  the  afternoon,  then, 
you  wait  in  the  restaurant  of  Santa  Lucia,  all 
ready  in  your  white  gown  and  orange  blos- 
soms. Ah,  how  magnificent  you  will " 

179 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  Bah  ! "  she  interrupted.  "  White  gown 
and  orange  blossoms  !  Where  do  you  think 
I  am  to  get  them  ?  Let  me  tell  you  some- 
thing, signore  :  I  am  poor." 

"  By  the  chains  of  Colombo,  then,  I  am 
not !"  he  exclaimed  jubilantly.  "You  shall 
have  them,  and  the  finest  in  all  Grand  Street. 
Here,  see  what  kind  of  a  man  your  promised 
spouse  is  ! " 

From  an  inside  pocket  of  his  waistcoat 
he  drew  a  large  calfskin  wallet  bound  about 
many  times  with  stout  cord,  and  took  from 
the  plenteous  store  therein  one  ten-dollar 
note.  This  he  handed  to  Juno  with  a 
proud  "  There  my  angel." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  faintly,  turning 
over  the  bill. 

"  And  yellow  boots  you  shall  have,"  he 
went  on ;  "  just  like  the  ones  Signorina 
Crotelli  had  last  Sunday.  I  saw  them  when 
she  and  Pietro  went  up  the  church  steps. 
Which  do  you  like  best,  yellow  or  white 
boots  ? " 

"  I  think  yellow  boots  for  a  bride  are 
1 80 


Yellow  Boots  and  Orange  Blossoms 

very  sympathetic,"  she  answered,  folding 
the  bank  note  and  tying  it  in  a  corner  of 
her  handkerchief.  And  without  a  moment's 
delay  she  set  off  for  Grand  Street,  where 
the  flower  of  Mulberry  does  its  shopping. 

Two  hours  afterward,  her  arms  heaped 
with  bundles,  and  every  cent  of  the  ten  dol- 
lars gone,  she  appeared  in  the  kitchen  of  her 
landlady  and  shocked  her  with  tidings  of 
the  nuptials  so  near  at  hand. 

"  Body  of  the  Serpent  !  "  remarked  the 
Garlic  Woman.  "  In  the  morning  you  are 
a  woman  without  hope,  and  in  the  evening 
you  come  back  the  promised  wife  of  a  rich 
signore." 

•While  she  shook  her  head  in  doubt  and 
suspicion,  Juno  spread  out  many  yards  of 
purple  satin,  white  lace  and  pink  lining,  a 
wreath  of  muslin  orange  blossoms  that 
should  give  no  poisonous  odour,  a  pair  of 
white  stockings,  and — the  sympathetic  yel- 
low boots.  As  the  bent  crone  gazed  at  the 
finery  her  zincky  visage  lost  the  hard  cast 
put  upon  it  by  a  lifetime  of  penny-splitting 
181 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

bargain  and  sale.  A  tender  light  filled  her 
eye,  and  she  lived  again  in  the  sweet  days 
of  her  youth.  Where  was  the  soldier  boy 
that  her  girlish  heart  loved  ?  Where  the 
dashing  Bersagliere  that  led  her  to  church 
in  the  mountain  village  ?  A  great  mound 
in  northern  Africa — the  tomb  of  a  whole 
regiment — could  answer.  Across  the  mind 
of  Juno  there  flashed  a  thought  of  her  hus- 
band and  the  crime  upon  which  she  was 
about  to  enter,  but  the  next  instant  it  per- 
ished as  she  snatched  up  the  purple  satin  to 
preserve  it  from  danger,  for  old  Luigia  had 
stained  it  with  a  tear. 

They  plied  their  needles  early  and  late, 
and  when  the  Feast  of  Sunday  dawned  Juno 
was  ready  for  the  church.  All  Mulberry 
knew  of  the  great  event  in  preparation,  and 
made  high  store  of  attending  the  ceremony 
at  the  altar  ;  but  only  the  first  families  of  the 
Torinesi,  Milanesi,  and  Genovesi,  and  the 
upper  lights  of  the  Calabriani,  the  Siciliani, 
and  the  Napolitani  were  bidden  to  the  feast 
at  Casa  Di  Bello.  When  Angelica  received 
182 


Yellow  Boots  and  Orange  Blossoms 

the  command  to  make  ready  this  feast,  she 
declared  to  Signer  Di  Bello  that  a  maledic- 
tion had  fallen  on  the  house.  To  this  he 
returned  only  a  stout  guffaw.  It  was  a  ter- 
rible blow  to  the  cook,  who  was  in  full  ac- 
cord with  Carolina's  policy  of  a  closed  door 
to  wives.  Many  months  she  had  longed  for 
the  return  of  her  mistress,  lest  this  very 
calamity  might  betide  during  her  absence. 
O  poor  Signorina  Carolina  !  To  come  back 
just  too  late  to  keep  out  the  Napolitana — 
the  baggage  above  all  others  against  whom 
she  wished  to  close  the  door.  She  knew  it, 
she  knew  it !  In  her  dreams  she  had  seen 
Juno  the  Superb  queening  it  over  her  in 
the  kitchen,  ordering  more  garlic  in  this, 
more  red  pepper  in  that,  and  making  every- 
thing fit  only  for  Neapolitan  pigs  to  eat. 
Maria  have  mercy,  but  she  must  obey.  So, 
taking  up  her  big  basket,  she  had  gone  forth 
to  market,  with  face  long  and  voice  doleful, 
and  poured  into  the  eager  ears  of  Sara  the 
Frier  of  Pepper  Pods  and  the  group  of 
raven  heads  always  about  her,  the  story  of 
183 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

the  dreadful  rush  going  on  to  plant  in  Casa 
Di  Bello  the  woman  whom  Carolina  had 
crossed  the  seas  to  keep  out. 

Though  a  stone  of  composure  in  all  the 
other  turns  that  her  adventuring  course  had 
taken,  Juno  lost  her  calm  a  little  in  the  haste 
and  flurry  of  constructing  the  nuptial  gown. 
As  an  effect  she  failed  until  the  last  moment 
to  discharge  a  duty  very  needful  to  the  suc- 
cess of  her  plans.  The  oversight  did  not 
occur  to  her  until  Sunday  afternoon,  at  the 
moment  when  she  was  seated  in  the  chair  of 
Chiara  the  Hair  Comber,  receiving  the  mar- 
vellous wedding  coiffure  for  which  that  artist 
was  famous.  The  hair  dressing  accom- 
plished, Juno  lost  no  time  in  going  to  the 
restaurant  and  penning  these  words,  taking 
great  care  with  the  spelling,  and  making 
sure  that  the  address,  "  Post  Office,  Jamaica, 
Long  Island,"  should  be  correct : 

DEAR  BERTINO  :  Your  uncle  died  to- 
day. Fly  from  America.  The  man-hunters 
are  after  you  !  J. 

184 


Then  she  put  on  the  gorgeous  purple 
gown,  and  called  the  Garlic  Woman  to  but- 
ton the  yellow  boots.  And  while  the  bells 
of  San  Patrizio  pealed,  and  the  people, 
dressed  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  moved 
toward  the  church  gates,  Juno  waited — 
waited  for  the  open  carriage  with  its  plumed 
horses  that  should  bear  her  to  the  altar  with 
Signer  Di  Bello. 


13  185 


CHAPTER  XV 

FAILURE    OF    BAXCA    TOMATO 

.  THE  banking  house  and  steamship  office 
of  Signer  Tomato  had  reached  the  border 
of  a  crisis.  Inch  by  inch  the  despairing 
padrone  had  seen  his  well  of  profit  dry  up. 
No  longer  did  labour  contractors  come  to 
him  for  men,  and  for  more  than  a  year  he 
had  not  taken  in  a  soldo  of  commission  on 
wages.  Even  Anselmo  the  baker,  who  for 
two  loyal  years  had  bought  a  four-dollar 
draft  on  Naples,  took  his  business  to  an  up- 
start rival,  and  people  sneered  at  the  sham 
packages  of  Italian  currency  exposed  in  the 
little  window.  The  slow  but  ever-crumb- 
ling wreck  had  left  him  at  last  with  only  the 
steamship  tickets  to  cling  to  ;  but  even  this 
spar  of  hope  failed  one  day  when  a  ship  of 
1 86 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

the  Great  Imperial  International  General 
Navigation  Company  was  stabbed  to  death 
off  the  Banks,  and  a  half  dozen  of  Signor 
Tomato's  clients  returned  to  Mulberry  minus 
their  tin  pans,  mattresses,  and  other  baggage, 
but  well  charged  with  denunciation  of  the 
agent  who  sold  them  the  trouble.  There- 
after it  would  have  been  as  easy  to  get 
home-goers  to  take  passage  in  a  balloon  as 
to  book  them  for  the  G.  I.  I.  G.  N.  C. 
line. 

Crushing  as  it  was,  this  disaster  might 
have  been  tided  over  had  not  a  long  season 
of  domestic  reverses  added  to  the  difficulty. 
For  three  years  there  had  been  no  christen- 
ing party  in  the  tiny  parlour  back  of  the  nan- 
keen sail,  and  during  that  period  the  bank's 
advertisement  in  the  Progresso  had  appeared 
without  the  famous  foot  line,  "Also  a  baby 
will  be  taken  to  nurse."  The  first  families 
of  Mulberry  had  always  bid  high  for 
Bridget's  offices,  and  the  advent  of  a  new 
Tomato  had  never  failed  to  mark  an  era  of 
prosperity  in  the  bank's  history.  Bridget's 
187 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

vogue  was  greatest  among  the  Neapolitan 
mothers,  who  do  not  hold  with  the  Ameri- 
can dairy  wife  that  it  is  seldom  the  biggest 
kine  that  yield  the  richest  quarts.  But  psy- 
chological reasons  were  not  lacking  for  the 
favour  in  which  the  rugged  Irish  woman 
was  held.  In  the  minds  of  her  patrons  was 
rooted  the  conviction  that  for  a  child  of 
Italy,  destined  to  fight  out  the  battle  of  life 
in  New  York,  there  could  be  no  better  start 
than  the  "  inflooence  "  of  a  nurse  of  Bridget's 
race. 

The  brave  figure  she  presented  at  these 
stages  !  How  all  Mulberry  stood  dazzled  as 
she  passed,  splendid  in  the  time-honoured 
costume  of  the  Neapolitan  balia  !  Tradition 
demanded  a  deep-plaited  vesture  of  blue  silk 
or  crimson  satin,  which  could  be  hired  of  any 
midwife.  Bridget  always  rejoiced  when  her 
employer  said  crimson  satin,  for  that  was  her 
favourite  as  well  as  Signor  Tomato's.  But 
there  were  other  points  of  the  outfit  that 
gave  her  little  delight.  These  were  the 
smoothing  and  shining  with  pomatum  of  her 
188 


Bridget  in  balia  array. 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

crow-black  hair,  and  the  sweetening  of  it 
with  cologne  ;  a  gilded  comb  in  her  topknot, 
and  pendent  therefrom  long  broad  ribbons 
to  match  her  gown  ;  rosettes  in  her  ears,  sil- 
ver or  pearly  beads  wound  in  double  strings 
circling  her  ample  neck ;  rings  galore  on 
her  chubby  fingers.  And  the  skirt !  Short 
enough  to  show  her  insteps,  white-stock- 
inged in  low-cut  shoes.  Seen  from  a  dis- 
tance, moving  not  without  pride  across  Para- 
dise Park,  she  resembled  a  huge  macaw  or 
other  bird  of  tropical  plumage. 

"  Troth,  it's  the  divvil's  own  ghinny  I  am 
now,  and  no  misthake,"  she  had  told  her- 
self more  than  once  when  a  new  engagement 
found  her  in  balia  array.  "  Phat  they'd  be 
sayin'  at  home  to  the  loikes  iv  me  I  don' 
knaw,  and  may  I  niver  hear.  Musha,  mother 
darlint,  did  y'  iver  drame  they'd  make  a  day- 
goe  iv  yer  colleen  Biddy  ?  Niver  moind, 
it's  an  honest  pinny  I'm  layin'  up  agin  the 
rainy  day  whin  there's  not  a  cint  comin'  to 
the  bank." 

But  the  rainy  days  had  been  too  many, 
189 


The  Last  Lady 'of  Mulberry 

and  the  fruits  of  those  golden  times  were 
always  eaten  up.  Since  the  loss  of  the  Great 
Imperial  Company's  ship  the  tide  of  preju- 
dice had  submerged  Signor  Tomato.  Peo- 
ple would  not  go  to  him  even  to  exchange  a 
ten-lire  note  for  American  coin.  Public  sen- 
timent vented  itself  also  against  the  Jack 
Tar,  that  steadfast  emblem  of  the  bank's 
steamship  connection  which  had  stood  at  the 
door  day  and  night  for  half  a  decade.  The 
hand  of  juvenile  Mulberry  had  ever  been 
against  the  old  sailor,  but  now  he  was  an 
infuriating  mark,  an  object  of  fiercest  hatred 
to  the  relatives  and  friends  of  the  passen- 
gers who  lost  their  tin  pans  and  mattresses. 
Passing  by,  they  would  draw  their  knives 
and  slash  at  his  neck,  or  thrust  the  point  at 
his  heart.  Every  night  brought  fresh  at- 
tacks upon  his  weather-beaten  person  with 
axes  and  clubs  until  the  banker  found  his 
silent  partner's  occiput  lying  in  the  gutter 
one  morning.  This  was  the  last  fragment 
of  the  head  that  he  had  been  losing  for 
weeks.  Signor  Tomato  took  the  incident 
190 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

as  an  omen  of  blackest  import.  An  hour 
later  he  said  to  Bridget : 

"  Guess  ees-a  come  de  end-a  now.  Doan' 
know  what  ees-a  goin'  do  everybodee.  All-a 
black,  so  black.  What-a  good  I  am  ?  Tell-a 
me  dat.  Tink  I'm  better  goin'  put  myself  off 
de  Bridge.  I'm  do  it,  you  bet,  if  I'm  not-a 
love  you  and  lil  Pat  and  Mike  and  Biddy." 

"  That'll  do  ye,  now,"  said  Bridget,  put- 
ting her  arm  around  the  little  man,  who 
pulled  at  a  black  pipe.  "That'll  do  ye, 
Dominick  Tomah-toe.  Off  the  Bridge  is  ut  ? 
Not  while  yer  own  wife's  here  to  kape  hould 
iv  yer  coat-tails.  Phat's  that  sayin'  ye  have 
about  the  clouds  with  the  silver  insides  ? 
Sure,  I  know  it  in  Eetalyun  when  I  hear  it, 
but  I  can't  say  it  in  English.  Phat  is  it, 
annyhow  ? " 

He  shook  his  head  gravely.  "  To-day  I 
not-a  tink  of  proverbi.  My  poor  wife,  you 
not-a  know  how  moocha  granda  troub'  have 
your  Domenico." 

"Arrah,  do  I  not?  Mebbe  it's  mesilf 
that  knows  betther  than  ye.  But  don't  be 
191 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

talkin'  iv  the  Bridge,  Dominick  dear,  whin 
ye  have  so  many  iv  thim  that  love  ye.  Look 
at  us  now,  will  ye  ?  Here's  mesilf,  and  " — 
she  went  to  the  door  and  called — "  Pat,  Mike, 
Biddy !  Here  to  your  fatther  this  minute, 
and  show  him  the  f rinds  he  has." 

Three  tousled  black  heads  and  bright 
faces  came  trooping  into  the  bank.  Signer 
and  Signora  Tomato  caught  them  up  and 
covered  them  with  caresses. 

"What's  the  matter,  mah  ?"  asked  Mike, 
the  oldest,  looking  up  into  his  mother's  tear- 
ful eyes. 

"  Nothin'  at  all,  Mickey  darlint ;  nothin' 
but  the  warrum  weather.  Sure  yer  fatther's 
always  downhareted  wid  the  hate,  and  it's 
mesilf  that  do  be  shweatin'  around  the  eyes. 
Away  wid  yez  now ;  back  to  yer  play,  me 
jewels,  but  kape  forninst  the  shop." 

"  I  can't  play  any  good,"  said  Mike 
glumly. 

"And  why  not?" 

"  'Cause  Paddy's  got  the  roller-skate." 

Bridget  swallowed  the  lump  in  her  throat, 
192 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

and  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  affluent 
past  when  the  babies  "  was  comin',"  and  there 
was  a  whole  pair  of  roller-skates  in  the 
family. 

"  Never  moind,  laddie,"  she  said,  "  be  a 
good  bye,  and  ye'll  have  the  handle  iv  the 
feather  duster  to  play  cat  with." 

Mike  danced  for  glee,  for  here  was  a  joy 
hitherto  tasted  only  in  dreams.  Ever  since 
its  detachment  from  the  worn-out  feathers 
the  handle  of  the  duster  had  been  used  as  a 
rod  of  correction,  often  raised  in  warning 
but  rarely  brought  down  upon  a  naughty 
Tomato. 

"  Me  want  somethin',"  said  little  Biddy, 
an  eloquent  plea  in  her  big  black-walnut 
eyes,  while  Mike  made  off  with  the  precious 
stick. 

"  Iv  coorse  ye  do,  me  ruby,  and  some- 
thin'  foine  ye'll  have,  be  the  Lord  Alexan- 
der !  Here,  take  ye  this,  and  go  beyandt  to 
Signory  Foli  and  buy  the  best  bit  iv  wather- 
melyun  she  has  on  the  boord.  Moind  ye  get 
it  ripe,  and  tell  the  signory  if  she  gives  ye 
193 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

annything  else  I'll  be  down  there  and  pull 
the  false  wig  off  her.  Away  wid  ye  now, 
and  come  back  with  the  rind." 

She  had  reached  in  the  window  and 
taken  from  a  very  small  collection  of  coins 
one  cent.  Her  husband  witnessed  the  act 
of  rash  extravagance  without  even  a  look  of 
reproach,  which  argued  that  the  crisis  in  the 
bank's  affairs  had  driven  him  to  an  unwonted 
mood.  Presently  Biddy  bounded  into  the 
room  bearing  a  thin  watermelon  rind  on 
which  scarcely  a  trace  of  the  red  remained. 
Bridget  took  it,  and  while  her  offspring  stood 
as  though  used  to  the  treatment,  rubbed  it 
over  her  face  with  loving  care,  thus  affirming 
the  Neapolitan  tenet  that  the  watermelon  is 
thrice  blessed  among  fruits,  for  with  it  one 
eats,  drinks,  and  washes  the  face.  The  ma- 
ternal apron  applied  as  a  towel,  Biddy  broke 
away  and  made  for  Paradise  Park,  where  she 
was  soon  romping  with  other  tangle-haired 
youngsters  around  the  band  stand. 

After  a  brief  silence,  during  which  Pat 
had  shot  by  the  door  on  the  roller  skate, 
194 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

Signor  Tomato  remarked,  jerking  his  thumb 
toward  the  headless  Jack  Tar : 

"  To-day  I  am  feel  lik-a  him — no  head, 
no  northeen.  For  God  sague,  me,  I'm  go 
crezzy." 

"  Bad  luck  to  the  hoodoo,  annyhow,"  said 
Bridget,  shaking  her  red  fist  at  the  mutilated 
relic  of  a  once  noble  though  wooden  man- 
hood. "  It's  the  Jonah  iv  a  sailor  y'are  iver 
since  we  bought  ye  from  the  Dootchman, 
sorra  the  day.  Phat  am  I  at  all  at  all,  that  I 
didn't  take  the  axe  t'ye  long  ago  ?  Be  the 
powers,  it's  not  too  late  yit,  and  I'll  do  it  this 
minute.  Betther  the  day  betther  the  deed, 
for  there's  not  a  shtick  in  the  house  agin  the 
fire  for  the  dinner  soup." 

In  rough-and-tumble  wrestling  fashion 
she  seized  the  sailor,  laid  him  low,  and 
dragged  him  over  the  curb  to  the  roadway. 
Then  she  bustled  into  the  bank,  and  quickly 
reappeared  armed  with  a  rusty  axe  of  long 
handle.  And  while  Signor  Tomato  looked 
on,  his  face  a  picture  of  rising  doubt  and  flut- 
tering hope,  and  passing  women  set  down 
195 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

loaded  baskets  from  their  heads  to  gaze  in 
voluble  wonder,  Bridget  brought  the  Jack 
Tar's  long-suffering  career  to  an  ignoble  end. 

"  Mike,  Pat,  Biddy  ! "  she  cried,  resting 
on  the  axe  when  the  task  was  finished. 
"  Come  you  here  and  carry  in  the  wood." 

She  had  left  no  part  of  the  structure  in- 
tact save  the  platform  and  wheels.  These 
she  kept  for  Pat  to  play  with.  "  It'll  do  him 
for  a  wagon,"  she  reflected ;  "  then  Mike 
can  have  the  shkate  all  to  himsilf." 

The  banker's  spirit  was  utterly  broken, 
else  he  would  never  have  permitted  without 
verbal  protest  at  least  this  outrage  upon  his 
old  silent  partner. 

"  Ees-a  one  old  friend  no  more,"  he 
mused  sadly,  looking  at  his  wife  and  shaking 
his  head.  "  I'm  don'  know  eef-a  you  do 
right."  Then  in  his  native  patter  he  quoted 
the  Neapolitan  saw  :  "  Who  breaks  pays,  but 
the  fragments  are  his." 

"  Glory  be  ! "  shouted  Bridget.  "  Sure 
ye're  betther  already.  It's  the  furst  provairb 
I'm  afther  havin'  from  yer  this  day.  Arrah, 
196 


Jack  Tar's  ignoble  end. 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

don't  bother  about  that  owld  divvil  iv  a 
wooden  man.  No  friend  iv  the  family  was 
he,  Dominick  dear,  and  it's  mesilf  that  knows 
it.  Not  a  sup  iv  good  luck  had  we  from  him 
in  the  five  year  he  stood  forninst  the  dure. 
Wisht  now,  lave  us  look  for  betther  toimes 
now  that  his  bones  bes  blazin'  under  the 
black  pot." 

Scarcely  had  she  finished  speaking  when 
the  postman  stepped  up  and  put  a  letter  in 
Signor  Tomato's  hand — a  message  that  her- 
alded an  instant  change  of  fortunes.  The 
banker's  eyes  bulged  and  he  grew  more  and 
more  excited  as  he  read.  "  Phat  is  it,  anny- 
how  ? "  asked  Bridget,  but  he  was  too  ab- 
sorbed to  answer.  Not  till  he  had  come  to 
the  end  did  he  tell  her  the  contents.  The 
letter  bore  the  postmark  of  Jamaica,  Long 
Island,  and  was  dated  two  days  after  Bertino's 
flight  and  a  week  before  the  day  set  for  the 
wedding  of  Juno  and  Signor  Di  Bello  : 

EMINENT     SIGNOR     TOMATO  :    You    re- 
member what  I  told  you  touching  the  bust 
197 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

of  the  Presidentessa.  Well,  it  is  still  in 
Dogana  [customhouse].  I  send  another 
letter  in  this,  the  letter  of  my  friend  the 
sculptor.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry!  On  his  letter 
I  have  written  that  they  shall  give  it  to  you. 
This  will  make  them  give  it  to  you  if  you 
want  it.  I  can  not  pay  the  tax,  and  my 
friend  must  not  wait  so  long  for  nothing, 
because  I  think  it  will  be  a  long  time  before 
I  shall  take  it,  and  I  have  so  much  trouble, 
such  grand  disturbances.  He  is  as  fine  a 
sculptor  as  any  in  Italy,  my  word  of  honour. 
Now,  you  take  the  bust  from  Dogana  and 
you  make  money  with  it,  to  become  his  agent 
in  America,  like  I  intended.  You  do  right 
by  my  friend  and  you  will  not  lose.  He 
will  make  more  busts  and  you  can  sell  them. 
He  is  Armando  Corrini,  of  Cardinali,  prov- 
ince of  Genoa.  If  you  do  not  reclaim  the 
bust  from  Dogana,  write  it  to  him,  be- 
cause I  will  not  write  again  to  you,  and 
neither  you  nor  any  one  else  will  know 

where  I  am. 

BERTINO  MANCOXI. 

198 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

"  Bravissimo ! "  cried  Signor  Tomato, 
the  grand  possibilities  of  the  writer's  sugges- 
tion unfolding  before  his  mind.  "  My  dear 
wife,  I'm  blief  you  right  for  chop-a  de  Jack- 
a  Tar.  You  know  de  proverbio:  When 
ees-a  cast  out  de  devil  ees-a  come  down  de 
angelo." 

"And  where's  the  angel,  I  dunno?" 
asked  Bridget. 

"  Ah,  you  no  see  northeen.  Ees  here,  in 
de  lettera.  Angel  ees-a  Bertino  Manconi. 
He  send-a  good  news." 

"  Ho-ho  !  The  laddybuck  that  putt  the 
knife  in  his  uncle.  Sure  it's  the  furst  toime 
iver  I  knew  angels  carried  stilettos." 

"Wha'  differenza  dat  mague?"  Fired 
with  a  new  purpose,  the  banker  was  himself 
again,  and  spoke  with  spirit.  "  Maybe  he 
goin'  know  wha'  he's  about.  For  me  dat 
ees-a  northeen.  Ees-a  de  statua — de  Presi- 
dentessa  I'm  tink  about.  You  know  wha' 
dat  ees  ?  Guess-a  not.  Well,  I'm  tell-a  you. 
Ees-a  var  fine,  I'm  know.  Dees-a  Bertino 
he  ees-a  been  show  me  de  lettera  from  de 
199 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Dogana.  It  say  he  moost-a  pay  one  hoon- 
dred  and  forty  dollar.  Ah,  moost-a  be 
sometheen  stupendo.  Tink  I'm  goin'  mague 
moocha  mun  by  dees-a  statua,  and  de  next-a 
one  he  mague  ees  de  King  of  Tammany 
Hall.  How  moocha  you  tink  I'm  sell-a 
him  ?  Ah !  fine,  fine !  De  Presidentessa, 
maybe  I'm  sell-a  her  to  de  Presidente. 
Who  know  ?  Guess-a  Signor  Tomato  he 
ees-a  rich-a  mahn,  he  sell-a  so  many  statua 
to  de  grandi  signori  of  America." 

The  more  his  eager  fancy  played  about 
the  bust  the  bigger  grew  the  fortune  to 
which  it  seemed  the  stepping  stone.  From 
its  siren  lips  there  flowed  a  far-off  subtile 
song,  which  bade  him  do  and  dare,  go  forth 
and  possess,  and  by  that  token  end  his  long 
night  of  poverty  in  a  glorious  dawn  of  riches. 
And  with  gaining  allure  came  the  oft-sung 
refrain:  "The  devil  cast  out,  an  angel  de- 
scends ;  the  devil  cast  out,  an  angel  descends." 
Surely  it  was  a  fulfilment  of  that  fine  proverb, 
so  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  Naples's  centu- 
ries. No  eye  could  see,  no  ear  catch,  a  plainer 
200 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

truth.  The  Jack  Tar,  devil  of  bad  luck,  not 
only  cast  out,  but,  grace  to  the  strong  arm 
and  inspired  axe  of  Bridget,  dead  for  ever- 
more. And  the  bust  was  the  descending 
angel.  Yes ;  he  would  obey  the  voice  of 
Heaven's  courier  and  take  the  Presidentessa 
from  the  customhouse,  though  it  asked  every 
soldo  in  the  window.  La  Presidentessa! 
The  First  Lady  of  the  Land  ?  Dio  magnifi- 
co !  And  to  him,  Domenico  Tomato,  Had 
fallen  the  matchless  honour  of  presenting 
this  great  work  of  art  to  the  American 
people  !  Not  an  hour  must  be  lost.  To  the 
Dogana  at  once  and  release  the  angel  of 
wealth. 

Bridget  had  the  best  of  reasons  for  lack- 
ing faith  in  her  husband's  business  projects, 
so  she  set  her  face  and  tongue  stoutly  against 
this  proposed  adventure  into  the  field  of  fine 
art.  To  her  bread-and-butter  view  it  meant 
a  leap  into  starvation.  She  knew  he  could 
not  meet  the  customs  demand  of  a  hundred 
and  forty  dollars  save  by  paying  out  every 
piece  of  money  that  was  on  exhibition  in  the 
14  20 1 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

window — by  parting  with  the  bank's  entire 
capital.  In  stirring  figures  she  pictured  the 
distress  and  ruin  that  he  was  going  to  court. 
But  to  no  purpose.  From  the  outset  it  was 
clear  that  her  Hibernian  substance  would  not 
prevail  against  his  Italian  shadow.  Even 
while  she  begged  him  for  the  sake  of  the 
'•  childer  "  to  desist,  he  went  about  gathering 
up  the  money.  He  untied  the  sham  pack- 
ages, and  from  the  top  of  each  picked  off  the 
one  real  bank  note  and  threw  the  sheaf  of 
blank  slips  under  the  little  counter.  Then 
into  a  chamois  bag  he  swept  the  large  heaps 
of  coppers,  the  small  heap  of  silver,  and  the 
very  few  gold  coins  that  were  in  the  collec- 
tion. "Who  nothing  dares,  nothing  does," 
he  quoted  grandly,  as  he  pocketed  the 
money,  and  made  for  the  door. 

"The  howly  Patrick  forgive  ye,"  said 
Bridget,  following  him  to  the  street.  "  Ivry 
cint  betune  yer  family  and  the  wolf  ! 
Worra,  worra,  Dominick  Tomah-toe,  ye'll 
rue  this  day  whin  they're  singin'  at  yer 

wake." 

202 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

"  Oh,  ees-a  better  you  goin'  shut  up,"  re- 
turned the  banker,  in  a  tone  meant  to  be 
gentle  and  reassuring.  "  Ees-a  whad  for  you 
mague  so  moocha  troub  ?  I'm  tell-a  you 
ees-a  better  you  goin'  shut  up.  Why  ? 
'Cause  you  not  understand  de  beautiful  art-a. 
Good-a  by,  my  dear  wife.  When  I'm  com-a 
back  I'm  show  you  sometheen  var  fine." 

He  went  to  a  rival  banker  and  turned  all 
his  Italian  money  into  American.  Then  he 
borrowed  a  push-cart  and  worked  his  way  at 
great  peril  among  the  trucks  and  cable  cars 
to  the  seat  of  customs.  It  took  all  day  to 
unwind  the  red  tape  that  bound  the  bust, 
and  the  clerks  counted  it  a  capital  joke  to 
watch  the  half-frantic  little  Italian  tearing 
from  one  window  to  another  in  search  of  the 
proper  authority.  Darkness  had  fallen  when, 
with  the  big  case  on  his  cart,  he  pushed  into 
Mulberry  and  stopped  before  the  broken 
bank.  At  the  door  sat  Bridget  with  her 
knitting,  and  Pat,  Mike,  and  Biddy  were 
romping  on  the  sidewalk. 

"  Ees-a  var  heavy  de  Presidentessa,"  he 
203 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

said,  tapping  the  box.  Bridget  sprang  up 
and  lent  him  the  aid  of  her  sinewy  arms. 
Full  of  wonder,  the  children  followed  them 
with  their  burden  into  the  bank.  With  a 
finger  on  his  lip,  Signor  Tomato  turned  the 
key  in  the  lock  and  covered  the  window  so 
that  outsiders  might  not  look  in. 

"  Ees-a  grand  secret-a,"  he  whispered  ; 
"  moost-a  see  nobodee." 

By  the  dim  light  of  an  oil  lamp  he  set 
to  work  with  cold  chisel  and  hammer  rip- 
ping off  the  lid  of  the  case.  When  he  had 
lifted  out  the  precious  one,  removed  the 
wrapping  paper  from  her  face,  and  set  her 
up  on  the  counter,  he  stepped  back  to  feast 
his  eyes. 

In  the  first  moment  of  the  awful  disil- 
lusion, it  seemed  to  Bridget  that  her  little 
man  had  lost  his  reason.  He  had  seen  por- 
traits of  the  President's  wife,  and  after  look- 
ing steadily  a  moment  the  desolate  truth 
darted  upon  his  consciousness  that  the  bust 
was  not  of  her.  It  possessed  not  a  single 
point  of  likeness.  To  the  turn-up  nose  of 
204 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

Juno  the  sculptor  had  granted  no  touch  of 
poetry,  and  it  stood  forth  in  all  the  cruel 
realism  of  coldest  marble.  While  the  terri- 
fied children  clung  to  their  mother's  skirts, 
Signor  Tomato  thrashed  about  the  shop, 
beating  his  temples  with  loosely  closed  fists 
and  crying,  "  Woe  is  me,  woe  is  me  ! "  He 
would  not  be  comforted,  nor  could  Bridget 
quiet  him  to  the  degree  of  telling  her  the 
cause  of  his  mad  goings-on  until  she  caught 
him  by  the  arm  and  commanded  that  he  be 
a  man  and  tell  her  his  trouble.  God  had 
gone  back  on  him,  he  said,  and  the  world 
had  reached  its  end.  To-morrow  there  would 
be  no  Domenic*)  Tomato. 

"  Look-a,  look-a  !  "  he  cried,  pointing  to 
the  bust  tragically.  "  Dat-a  face  !  O,  for 
God  sague  !  Dat  ees-a  not  de  Presiden- 
tessa ! " 

"  What  !  It's  not  the  Furst  Lady  iv  the 
Land?" 

"  No,  no  ;  ees-a  de  last  lady,  I'm  tink. 
Ees-a  lost  evrytheen.  Misericordia  !  What 
I'm  do  now  ?" 

205 


Bridget  thought  bitterly  of  the  proverb 
about  the  angel  descending  when  the  devil 
is  out,  but  she  had  no  heart  just  then  to 
twit  her  husband  by  a  sarcastic  recital  of  it, 
although  the  tempter  put  the  words  on  her 
tongue.  But  she  could  not  hold  back  an 
angry  thrust  at  Bertino,  who  rose  now  in 
black  relief  as  the  author  of  their  present  and 
greatest  trouble.  At  sound  of  his  betrayer's 
name  the  banker  became  calm.  He  stood 
silent  a  moment,  and  then,  with  upraised 
fists  tightly  clinched,  swore  that  Bertino's 
blood  should  answer.  Then  he  took  up 
again  his  wild  lamentation,  railing  against 
heaven  and  earth.  He  went  over  the  whole 
catalogue  of  his  disasters,  and  closed  with 
the  news  to  Bridget  that  for  three  months 
not  a  nickel  of  shop  rent  had  been  paid. 
He  had  staked  his  all  on  the  Presidentessa, 
and  now  that  she  had  proved  false  they  had 
no  place  to  lay  their  heads. 

Bridget  treated  herself  to  a  flood  of 
tears,  and  the  children  kept  her  company. 
All  at  once  Signor  Tomato  stopped  wailing, 
206 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

and  startled  her  by  saying  resolutely  that 
they  must  all  leave  Mulberry — right  away, 
that  very  night.  His  dear  wife  need  give 
herself  no  care  as  to  their  destination. 
Enough  that  her  loving  husband,  with  an 
eye  on  the  trickster  Fate,  had  always  kept  a 
refuge  in  the  country — a  place  of  shelter  for 
his  family  whereof  he  had  never  spoken.  It 
was  not  far.  They  could  load  their  house- 
hold stuff  on  the  push-cart  still  at  the  door, 
and  be  off  under  cover  of  the  night.  In  the 
sweet  country  perhaps  their  fortune  would 
change.  After  all,  it  was  good  to  fly  from 
Mulberry,  out  to  the  free  meadows,  amid 
trees  and  flowers,  where  birds  sang,  and  one 
could  see  the  big  gold  moon  hanging  over 
the  fields  for  hours  and  hours.  Some  picture 
of  his  fatherland  had  flashed  in  his  vision, 
and  Bridget,  catching  the  buoyancy  of  it, 
offered  a  "  Glory  be  ! "  for  the  chain  of 
events  that  was  to  lift  her  out  of  "  Ghinny- 
town." 

"  Arrah,"  said  she  meditatively,  "  maybe 
it  was  an  angel,  afther  all." 
207 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  who  knows  ? "  he  said  in 
Neapolitan,  and  she  knew  a  proverb  was 
coming  :  "  Chance  is  the  anchor  of  hope 
and  the  tree  of  abundance." 

Their  poverty  brought  its  blessing  in  the 
fact  that  they  were  able  to  crowd  all  their 
worldly  holdings — not  forgetting  the  bust 
and  Mike  and  Pat  and  Biddy — into  a 
single  load  of  the  push-cart.  The  puzzle  of 
bestowing  the  children  so  that  they  might 
be  comfortable  enough  to  sleep  during  the 
long  journey  at  hand  was  a  teasing  one. 
But  the  Tomatoes  were  equal  to  it,  though 
it  called  out  all  the  genius  for  multum  in 
parvo  of  which  experience  had  made  them 
masters.  What  bedding  they  owned  was 
spread  on  the  bottom  of  the  cart,  and  the 
furniture  so  stacked  as  to  form  a  low  arch, 
beneath  which  the  youngsters  crept  with 
shouts  of  glee.  A  bed  not  made  up  on  the 
floor  had  played  no  part  in  their  happy  lives, 
and  this  sally  abroad  in  the  darkness  and 
open  air  seemed  a  much  better  thing  than 
huddling  in  the  cote  back  of  the  nankeen 
208 


Failure  of  Banca  Tomato 

sail,  where  Bridget  kept  her  doves  at  night. 
While  the  parents  moved  back  and  forth, 
carrying  the  remaining  odds  and  ends  and 
finding  a  place  for  them  on  the  cart,  anxious 
treble  voices  issued  from  the  load  : 
"  Mah,  did  yer  put  in  the  skate  ?" 
"  Don't  fergit  der  duster  handle." 
"  Where's  der  Jack  Tar  wagon  ?  " 
"  Say,  Biddy's  gone  ter  sleep." 
At  last   Domenico  locked  the  door,  and 
with  Bridget  by  his  side  at  the  shafts,  began 
the  exodus  from  Mulberry,  first  stopping  to 
shake  his  fist  at  the  scene  of  his  downfall 
and  observe  : 

"  I'm  no  dead-a  yet,  you  bet-a  ! " 
"  Dead  is  it  ? "  said  Bridget,  as  she  put 
her   strength    to   the   crossbar.     "  Sure   it's 
yersilf  '11  live  manny  a  day  to  wink  at  the 
undertaker." 

It  was  smooth  going  over  the  asphalt  of 
Bayard  and  Mulberry  Streets,  and  silently 
the  strange  caravan  trundled  along.  San 
Patrizio  tolled  a  late  hour  for  that  quarter 
of  early-rising  toilers — eleven  o'clock — and 
209 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

the  sidewalks,  which  had  swarmed  with 
buzzing  life  earlier  in  the  night,  now  gave 
back  the  echo  of  but  a  few  heavy  footfalls. 
From  Paradise  Park  the  wooing  children  of 
Italy  had  departed  to  their  homes,  leaving 
the  benches  to  all-night  lodgers  of  other 
climes.  Passing  the  CarTe  Good  Appetite, 
the  Tomatoes  were  startled  by  a  mighty 
chorus  of  "  bravoes  "  and  "  vivas,"  followed 
by  the  clink  of  wineglasses.  It  was  Signor 
Di  Bello  and  his  boon  comrades.  The  mer- 
chant had  just  announced  his  betrothal  and 
coming  marriage  to  Juno. 


210 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    LAST    LADY    UNMASKED 

DAWN  began  to  show  the  shapes  of 
things  an  hour  after  the  Tomato  outfit  had 
left  the  environs  of  Jamaica  and  struck  into  a 
gravel-strewn  byway  that  followed  the  Long 
Island  Railroad.  All  night  the  banker  and 
his  faithful  helpmeet  had  pushed  the  cart 
through  a  country  sparsely  settled  in  places, 
but  always  with  a  good  road  under  the 
wheels.  Now  they  had  reached  the  last 
stage  of  their  journey,  and  the  little  passen- 
gers, who  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  ferryboat 
crossing  the  East  River,  began  to  open  their 
eyes.  Mike  was  first  to  crawl  out  from 
under  the  furniture,  and  Pat  and  Biddy  ap- 
peared soon  afterward.  They  were  allowed 
to  get  down  and  stretch  their  legs,  which 
211 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

they  did  by  frisking  ahead  of  the  cart  and 
dancing  for  pure  joy  at  finding  themselves 
in  a  new  and  beautiful  world.  Never  before 
had  they  seen  a  piece  of  Nature  larger  than 
the  lawn  of  Paradise.  In  the  delight  and 
wonder  of  beholding  the  gloried  east  they 
almost  forgot  to  be  hungry,  but  did  not, 
and  presently  set  up  a  cry  for  breakfast. 
Bridget  told  them  they  would  have  to  wait 
until  the  villa  was  reached,  which  would  be 
in  a  little  while,  her  husband  said.  Their 
route  now  lay  directly  over  the  pipe  line  of 
the  Brooklyn  aqueduct,  the  manhole  caps 
of  which  projected  from  the  ground  at  inter- 
vals of  a  hundred  yards.  To  the  north  and 
east  stretched  a  level  countryside,  covered 
in  spots  with  oaks  of  scrubby  growth. 
From  the  low  thicket  a  quail  now  and  then 
blew  his  shrill  whistle,  to  the  deep  bewilder- 
ment of  the  gamins  of  Mulberry.  They 
would  scamper  after  the  mystery  and  thrash 
the  bushes  for  it,  only  to  hear  the  piercing 
note  elsewhere,  when  the  bird  had  flown 

away. 

212 


The  Last  Lady  Unmasked 

At  last  Signer  Tomato,  who  had  been 
peering  anxiously  into  the  distance,  pointed 
ahead  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Be  praised  de  Madonna  !  Ees-a  dere  ! 
ees-a  dere  !  Now  ees-a  all  right  evrytheen." 

"Phat's  there?" 

"  De  villa  Tomato.  Ees-a  var  fine.  You 
not  see  ? " 

"  Upon  me  sowl  I  see  nothin'  but  two 
big  black  things  that  do  look  like  whales." 

Domenico  put  on  a  grin  and  said  : 

"  Ah,  my  dear  wife,  moosta  tell  you  de 
trut  honesta.  I'm  been  mague  lill  fun. 
Deesa  villa  she  no  ees-a  joosta  der  same  lika 
de  housa.  Ees-a  not  mague  of  wood ;  but 
you  wait-a,  some  time  I'm  show  you  how 
ees-a  nice  and  cool-a  de  iron  when  ees-a 
cover  wit  leaves.  Pietro  Sardoni  he  been 
liv-a  here,  and  he  lik-a  var  mooch,  I'm  blief." 

"  Phat  d'yer  mane  at  all  at  all  ?  Is  it 
not  a  house  ye're  takin'  us  to,  thin  ?  What 
is  it,  annyway  ?  Howly  wafer  !  Pipes  ! " 

They  had  drawn  near  enough  for  her  to 
distinguish  two  black  iron  pipes  of  the 
213 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

largest  size  used  for  underground  conduits. 
Though  they  seemed  much  smaller  from 
that  distance,  each  was  twelve  feet  long  with 
an  interior  diameter  of  five  feet.  They  lay 
side  by  side,  as  they  had  been  left  by  the 
builders  of  the  aqueduct. 

"  Moosha,  moosha,"  she  went  on,  but  not 
relaxing  her  effort  at  the  shafts,  "  it's  far 
down  in  the  worruld  y'are  now,  Bridget 
O' Kelly,  and  yer  father's  own  third  cousin 
coachman  to  the  Lord  Mayor  iv  Dublin  ! " 

"  My  dear  wife,  moosta  forgive  your 
husband ;  ees-a  got  northeen  better.  De 
proverbio  he  say  :  One  who  is  contented 
has  enough." 

The  strip  of  green  that  crowned  the  mar- 
gin of  the  railroad  cut  was  spangled  with 
bright  yellow,  and,  his  eye  lighting  on  it, 
Signer  Tomato  said,  by  way  of  a  comforting 
crumb  to  Bridget : 

"  Look  !  Guess-awe  goin'  mague  plenta 
mon  here  pickin'  dandelion  salad." 

One  of  the  youngsters  had  heard  the 
talk  about  the  pipes,  and,  telling  the  others, 
214 


The  Last  Lady  Unmasked 

all  three  ran  ahead  to  investigate.  After  a 
peep  into  one  of  the  huge  tubes  they  came 
trooping  back  in  a  state  of  fright. 

"  Somebody  in  our  pipe,  pah  ! "  said  Mike. 

"  A  big  man  ;  guess  he's  dead,"  from  Pat. 

It  had  never  struck  Domenico's  fancy 
that  the  water  pipes  whereon  he  had  counted 
for  a  final  refuge  might  become  a  chateau 
in  Spain  because  of  some  rival  claimant  to 
their  shelter. 

"  Gran  Dio  !  More  trouble  ! "  he  whined, 
and  bundled  through  the  grass  to  see  for 
himself,  while  Bridget  trudged  on  with  the 
cart,  the  children  close  at  her  heels.  Stoop- 
ing, he  peered  into  one  of  the  pipes,  rose 
again  quickly,  threw  up  his  arms,  brandished 
his  open  hands,  bent  again,  and  put  his 
head  into  the  mouth  of  the  iron  cavern. 
Then  he  sprang  up  and  shrieked  : 

"  It  is  he  !  By  the  blood  of  St.  Janua- 
rius,  his  blood  shall  pay  ! " 

From  the  deep  pocket  of  his  threadbare 
coat   he    drew  a  heavy-bladed  clasp    knife, 
jerked  it  open,  and  the  next  instant  would 
215 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

have  tried  its  steel  on  the  awakened  figure 
in  the  pipe  but  for  Bridget,  who  caught 
both  his  arms  from  behind  and  pinioned 
them  in  able  style. 

"  Is  it  bloody  murther  yer'd  be  addin'  to 
all  the  rest,  Dominick  Tomah-toe,"  said 
she,  tightening  her  grip,  while  the  little 
man  struggled  and  profaned  the  canonized 
host.  "  Phat  the  divil's  the  manin'  iv  it, 
annyhow  ? " 

"Let-ago!  You  hear?  Let-a  go,  I'm 
tell-a  you  !  Look  in  de  pipa  and  you  see 
ees-a  what  for.  Guess-a  you  goin'  want  kill 
too." 

At  this  point  a  well-thatched  head  stuck 
out  of  the  pipe,  and  the  drowsy  eyes  of  a 
man  on  his  knees  looked  up  wonderingly  at 
the  group  of  Tomatoes.  It  was  the  face  of 
Bertino  Manconi. 

"  Ah-ha !  Now  you  see  what  for  I'm 
go  kill.  Let-a  go,  I'm  tell-a  you  ! " 

"  Aisy  now,  me  darlint.  No,  no ;  I'll 
not  lave  you  go  yit  awhile  ;  not  till  that 
ghinny  fire  in  ye  has  burnt  out  a  bit.  Will 
216 


The  Last  Lady  Unmasked 

ye  give  me  the  knife  ?  Here,  lave  go  iv  it 
— there  y'are.  Now  ye  can  use  yer  fists  in 
Donnybrook  shtyle,  and  not  a  worrud  from 
Bridget  O'Kelly." 

She  had  captured  the  knife.  Bertino 
was  on  his  feet.  Tomato  moved  toward  him 
with  claws  outspread. 

"  See  what  you  have  done,"  he  snarled  in 
the  Naples  patter.  "  Famous  joke,  neh  f 
To  rob  a  poor  man  of  his  last  cent,  that  you 
might  have  a  bust  of  your  amorosa — some 
good-for-naught  of  a  woman  !  A-h-h !  A 
famous  joke  !  But  you  shall  pay.  Oh, 
woman,  give  me  that  knife." 

"  Phat  ails  yer  fists  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  fool,"  broke  out  Bertino, 
and  the  banker  jumped  at  him,  but  did  not 
strike.  "  A  fool,  I  say.  You  talk  much 
and  say  nothing.  What  is  it  about  the 
bust  ?  Tell  me.  Can't  you  see  I  am  hungry 
to  know  ?  What  has  become  of  it  ?  Is  it  a 
fine  likeness  of  the  Presidentessa  ?  " 

"  Presidentessa  ! "  sneered  the  banker,  and 
Bridget  echoed  the  word  in  like  contempt. 
15  217 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  Yes.     Beautiful,  neh  ?  " 

The  banker  waved  the  back  of  his  hand 
beneath  his  chin  in  token  that  he  was  not 
to  be  fooled.  "  You  are  a  great  inno- 
cent.  Yes ;  but  you  can't  play  off  on  me. 
You  know  it  is  not  the  First  Lady  of  the 
Land." 

'"  Not  the  Presidentessa  ?  " 

"  No,  you  thief  ! " 

"  For  the  love  of  the  bright  Saints,  who 
is  it?" 

"  Bah  !     You  know." 

"  I  swear  I  do  not.  It  was  a  picture  of 
the  Presidentessa  that  I  sent  to  the  sculptor. 
Maria !  Has  Armando  made  the  wrong 
woman  ?  Where  is  it  ?  " 

"  Here." 

In  a  jiffy  the  furniture  atop  of  it  was 
removed  and  the  boxed  marble  set  on  the 
ground.  When  the  paper  had  been  torn  off 
and  the  face  of  Juno  stood  revealed  in  the 
morning's  first  flush  Bertino  was  on  hands 
and  knees  before  it. 

"  Holy  Madonna  of  Grace  !  "  he  shrieked, 
218 


The  Last  Lady  Unmasked 

and  got  up  covering  his  eyes  and  turning 
away.  "  It  is  too  much,  too  much  ! " 

"  Who  is  it  ? "  asked  Bridget  and  Domen- 
ico  in  concert. 

"  My  wife  ! " 

"  Arrah,  now  I  know  the  mug  iv  it ! " 
cried  Bridget  in  triumph.  "  Sure  that  pug 
nose  has  been  dancin'  in  me  brain  like  a 
nightmare  since  iver  I  seen  it  in  the  bank. 
She's  noane  other  than  the  singer  I  seen  in 
the  Gaffe  of  the  Bella  Siciliana  the  day  ye 
was  writin'  at  the  table.  Do  ye  moind  ? " 

She  spoke  in  Signor  Tomato's  jargon, 
tinctured  freely  with  dashes  of  her  mother 
brogue. 

"  Yes,"  Bertino  answered  ;  "  it  was  on 
that  day  she  promised  to  be  my  wife,  and 
that  day  I  wrote  the  letter  to  Armando  and 
put  in  a  picture  of  the  First  Lady." 

"  Be  the  same  token,  ye  did  nothin'  iv 
the  koind,  for  it's  mesilf  that  remimbers  see- 
in'  her  take  out  that  pictoor  when  ye  ran  to 
the  dure  at  her  biddin',  and  putt  another  wan 
in  its  place.  Then  it  was  she  putt  in  her 
219 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

own  ugly  mug  and  ruined  the  hull  iv  us. 
Sure  anny  blind  man  can  see  it  now  wid  half 
an  eye.  Worra,  worra,  why  didn't  I  know 
what  it  mint  at  the  toime  ! " 

"  I  will  kill  her,"  Bertino  said  in  a  low 
voice,  and  Signer  Tomato  dropped  wearily 
on  the  ground.  It  was  the  moment  for  a 
soul-thrilling  proverb,  but  the  apt  one  would 
not  come,  and  he  eased  his  feelings  with  the 
poor  makeshift,  "He  who  goes  slow  goes 
safe  "  (Chi  va  piano  va  sano). 

No  impolite  questions  were  put  to  Ber- 
tino concerning  the  affair  that  had  necessi- 
tated his  sudden  exit  from  Mulberry,  nor  did 
Bertino  give  any  hint  of  his  belief,  inspired 
by  Juno's  ruse,  that  Signor  Di  Bello  had 
been  laid  low.  Had  not  the  ethics  of  Mul- 
berry rendered  the  knife-play  and  the  names 
of  all  concerned  a  forbidden  subject,  they 
could  have  told  him  that  his  uncle  was  up 
and  about  and  cracking  walnuts  in  his  usual 
form.  But  the  vendetta  is  sacred,  and 
Bridget,  itching  as  she  was  to  discuss  the 
murderous  attempt,  was  too  much  Italian- 
220 


The  Last  Lady  Unmasked 

ized  to  venture  upon  that  hallowed  ground. 
Aided  by  their  knowledge  of  Signor  Di 
Bello's  admiration  for  Juno,  however,  the 
Tomatoes  were  easily  able  to  understand 
why  Bertino  had  risen  to  the  assertion  of 
a  husband's  rights  under  the  law  of  the 
stiletto. 

When  Bertino  told  them  he  had  slept  in 
the  pipe  every  night  since  his  hasty  depar- 
ture from  the  city,  the  banker,  with  an  ex- 
pansive grace  that  atoned  handsomely  for 
the  insult  of  attempting  to  slay  him,  begged 
him  to  remain  a  guest  at  Villa  Tomato. 
They  were  not  quite  settled  in  their  summer 
home,  to  be  sure,  but  in  a  few  minutes  they 
would  be  prepared  to  serve  breakfast.  The 
formality  ended  here,  for  one  and  all  they 
fell  to  the  task  of  putting  their  house  in  or- 
der. First  the  clamour  of  Mike,  Pat,  and 
Biddy  was  silenced  by  issuing  to  each  a  large 
chunk  of  coarse  bread,  with  the  command 
that  they  go  at  once  and  gather  dry  twigs 
for  firewood.  The  urchins  returned  quickly 
with  the  stock  of  bread  greatly  diminished, 
221 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

but  the  store  of  firewood  not  much  in- 
creased. Meantime  Signor  Tomato  and 
Bertino  had  set  up  the  stove,  and  fitted  a 
sheet-iron  chimney  to  the  end  of  the  pipe 
that  was  to  serve  as  kitchen  and  parlour. 
Bridget  soon  had  a  fire  crackling,  though  it 
tried  her  back  somewhat  stooping  as  she 
moved  from  the  parlour  door  to  the  kitch- 
en. But  she  did  not  grumble.  Her  heart 
warmed  with  womanly  response  to  the  bless- 
ing of  a  home,  lowly  as  it  was,  and  she 
stirred  inside  and  out  of  the  pipe  with  a 
jollity  of  temper  that  bespoke  the  halcyon 
days  of  the  babies. 

The  Last  Lady,  as  they  now  called  the 
wicked  bust,  had  swallowed  all  but  a  dollar 
or  two  of  the  bank's  capital,  but  for  what  re- 
mained to  give  them  a  new  start  Bridget  was 
full  of  thanksgiving.  She  had  rationed  the 
outfit  with  a  small  supply  of  codfish,  with 
which  to  make  the  indispensable  Neapolitan 
baccala  ;  a  generous  measure  of  the  cheap 
but  enduring  lupine  beans,  some  bacon,  red 
onions,  and  a  half  dozen  loaves  of  second- 

222 


The  Last  Lady  Unmasked 

hand  bread.  So  well  had  she  managed  the 
finances  that  a  balance  of  forty-seven  cents 
was  left  in  the  treasury.  Soon  after  the  blue 
smoke  began  writhing  from  the  chimney  she 
had  a  pot  of  soup  on  the  stove,  and  hungrily 
Domenico  and  Bertino  busied  themselves 
in  the  current  of  its  gustful  odour.  They 
brought  leafy  boughs  from  the  scrub  oaks 
and  fashioned  them  thickly  atop  and  beside 
both  wings  of  the  iron  villa  to  shield  it  from 
the  sun's  fire.  They  made  it  look  like  a 
mound  of  the  plain  grown  with  tangled 
greenery  and  pierced  by  two  grottoes  straight 
and  smooth  as  arrow  shafts.  Of  the  pipe 
not  used  as  a  kitchen  they  devised  a  dormi- 
tory, and  placed  therein  the  Last  Lady,  first 
swathing  her  tenderly  in  paper  and  putting 
her  back  in  the  casing  of  pine  wood.  For 
doors  the  nankeen  sail  was  made  to  serve  a 
new  turn,  but  not  without  a  throe  of  sorrow 
did  the  banker  cut  it  in  parts  and  fasten 
them  to  the  ends  of  the  pipes. 

The  first  meal  cooked  in  the  villa  scullery 
was  a  triumph  for  Bridget's  art.     Never  in 
223 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

all  her  Mulberry  days  had  she  produced  a 
better  minestrone.  Bertino  was  asked  to  a 
seat  at  the  table,  which  consisted  of  a  piece 
of  oilcloth  spread  on  the  ground.  While 
they  sat  like  tailors  in  a  circle  spooning  their 
thick  soup  from  tin  plates  and  munching 
the  secondhand  bread,  a  bobolink  and  his 
wife,  drawn  by  the  human  habitation,  dashed 
above  them,  weighing  the  question  of  be- 
coming neighbours : 

"...  Now  they  rise  and  now  they  fly  ; 
They  cross  and  turn,  and  in  and  out,  and  down  the  middle 

and  wheel  about, 
With   a   'phew,    shew,  Wodolincon  ;   listen   to  me,  Bobolin- 

con  ! " 

At  length  they  dropped  in  the  high 
grass  not  many  yards  away,  and  began  lay- 
ing the  foundation  for  their  house,  un- 
daunted by  the  trio  of  natural  nest  burglars 
whose  wondering  eyes  and  ears  had  taken 
them  in.  But  Mike,  Pat,  and  Biddy  never 
discovered  the  pale-blue  egg  that  soon  lay 
there  ;  and  in  the  days  that  followed,  when 
the  other  Tomatoes  and  Bertino  were  afield 
gathering  dandelion  leaves,  and  Bridget  sat 
224 


The  Last  Lady  Unmasked 

with  her  knitting  at  the  kitchen  door,  the 
rollicking  song  of  these  trustful  neighbours 
was  often  the  only  sound  that  enlivened  the 
desolate  moor. 

When  Saturday  morning  came,  and  the 
push-cart  was  heaped  high  with  the  esculent 
herbs,  Signor  Tomato  said  to  Bridget  : 

"  Guess  ees-a  better  I'm  goin'  to  de  cit 
for  sell-a  de  salata.  See  how  moocha ! 
Moosta  have  tree  dollar  for  dat." 

"  Sure,"  said  Bridget,  and  away  he 
started  with  their  first  load  of  produce  for 
market.  Bertino  helped  him  push  as  far  as 
Jamaica  ;  then  he  went  to  the  post  office  to 
inquire  for  the  letter  that  Juno  had  prom- 
ised to  write  telling  him  the  result  of  his 
uncle's  wound.  There  was  no  letter  for 
him.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  get 
away  from  America  somehow  should  the 
death  of  Signor  Di  Bello  make  him  a  mur- 
derer, but  he  thirsted  for  an  accounting  with 
Juno  in  the  matter  of  the  bust.  His  wife 
had  deceived  him,  and  the  canons  of  vendetta 
left  him  only  one  course.  At  the  same  time 
225 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

he  saw  that  he  was  in  Juno's  power,  and  for 
the  present  must  do  naught  to  fan  her  wrath. 
She  knew  his  hiding  place,  and  could  deliver 
him  to  the  man-hunters  of  the  Central  Of- 
fice. What  a  simpleton  he  had  been  to  tell 
her !  Had  his  heart  not  warned  him  all 
along  that  she  did  not  love  him  ?  Well,  he 
was  blind  no  more.  He  would  wait,  and  if 
his  uncle  died,  Australia  or  any  other  land 
would  do  for  a  refuge,  but  he  would  not 
quit  America  until  he  had  collected  from 
Juno  the  debt  she  owed  him  and  the  poor 
sculptor  whom  her  treachery  would  be  sure 
to  send  to  a  madhouse. 

As  he  trudged  back  to  the  pipes  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  there  would  be  fine  lyric 
justice  in  a  measure  of  vitriol  well  thrown 
at  the  face  that  poor  Armando's  marble  so 
faithfully  depicted.  But  to  this  form  of 
payment  he  quickly  said  no  ;  smooth,  lean 
steel,  tried  and  true,  was  the  best  friend  of 
the  vendetta. 

When  Signer  Tomato  reached  Mulberry 
the  day  was  spent,  and  the  market  minstrels 
226 


The  Last  Lady  Unmasked 

had  begun  their  songs.  It  was  no  easy 
work  for  him  to  find  a  place  at  the  curb- 
stone wherein  he  could  squeeze  and  join 
the  long  line  of  Saturday  -  night  venders 
who  filled  the  air  with  their  ditties.  In  the 
weary  solitude  of  his  journey  from  Jamaica 
he  had  had  ample  time  to  plagiarize  an  an- 
cient market  couplet,  so  that  when  he  began 
to  offer  his  wares  he  was  able  to  do  so  in  the 
manner  of  a  veteran  : 

"  Dandelion,  tra-la-la,  dandelion,  tra-la-lee  ; 
Buy  him  and  eat  him,  and  lusty  you'll  be  ! " 

The  people  marvelled  at  beholding  the 
banker  in  his  new  role,  but  they  bought  of 
his  stock,  and  the  first  venture  of  Villa  To- 
mato in  the  world  of  commerce  was  a  re- 
splendent success. 


227 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE  FALCON  SAVES  THE  DOVE 

"  MARIANNA  ! " 

It  was  the  austere  voice  of  Carolina,  and 
a  love  scene  behind  the  second-cabin  smok- 
ing room  came  to  an  abrupt  close.  Though 
it  was  not  the  first  stolen  meeting  with  Ar- 
mando that  she  had  broken  up  during  the 
voyage,  Carolina  had  never  told  the  girl  that 
she  must  shun  other  suitors  because  of  a 
husband  already  chosen  for  her  in  New 
York.  Profiting  by  her  experience  as  a 
meddler  in  the  love  affairs  of  others,  she 
had  deemed  best  to  conceal  her  matrimonial 
plans  for  Casa  Di  Bello  until  it  should  be 
too  late  for  Marianna  to  defy  her  wishes. 
Not  until  the  final  day  of  the  passage,  there- 
fore, did  she  let  out  the  cat.  Then  she  pic- 
228 


The  Falcon  Saves  the  Dove 

tured  to  the  girl  the  splendid  future  pre- 
pared for  her  as  the  wife  of  Signer  Di  Bello, 
the  merchant  prince  of  Mulberry. 

"  But  I  am  promised  to  Armando,"  said 
Marianna.  "  How  can  I  marry  any  one 
else  ?  " 

"  Bah  !  A  poor  devil  whom  you  would 
have  to  feed.  You  will  never  see  him  again. 
In  America  he  will  soon  forget  you  and  find 
another  amoroso,.  With  my  brother  for  a 
husband  you  will  be  a  signora — as  fine  a 
lady  as  any  in  America.  We  have  many 
pigs  in  Mulberry.  With  this  good-for- 
naught  sculptor  you  would  soon  be  one  of 
them." 

"  He  is  as  good  as  any  one  else — even 
your  brother.  Anyhow,  I  love  him." 

The  hour  had  come  for  Carolina  to  as- 
sert her  power.  "  Love  him  ! "  she  snapped. 
"  What  if  you  do  ?  Will  love  put  meat  in 
your  soup  ?  You  are  matta  [crazy].  Per- 
haps I  shall  find  a  way  to  give  you  reason. 
Do  you  think  you  would  like  to  be  home- 
less in  that  ? " 

229 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

The  ship  was  nearing  the  Battery,  and 
Carolina  pointed  toward  the  New  York 
shore.  With  deep  satisfaction  she  perceived 
that  the  girl's  spirit  quailed  before  the  awful 
vastness  of  the  city.  Presently  Mariarma 
caugHt  sight  of  Armando  coming  from  the 
companion  way  with  his  poor  little  valise, 
which  she  knew  contained  all  his  worldly 
goods.  What  if  she  defied  her  aunt,  and 
cast  her  fortunes  at  once  with  him  ?  No. 
She  could  not  add  to  his  burden.  But  need 
she  do  so  ?  Could  she  not  rather  be  a  help  ? 
Toil  had  been  ever  her  lot.  She  could  not 
remember  when  she  had  not  worked  away 
her  days — until,  until  Aunt  Carolina  had 
taken  her  up,  had  provided  her  with  fine 
clothes,  and  made  her  live  like  a  signora. 
No  matter ;  she  would  rather  be  poor  and 
work  for  Armando.  But  New  York ! 
That  great  monster  crouching  there  in  its 
Sunday  nap,  and  sending  lazy  curls  of 
steaming  breath  from  its  thousands  of 
snouts !  It  was  that  they  would  have  to 
dare — to  fight  that ! 

230 


The  Falcon  Saves  the  Dove 

"  You  are  a  ninny  to  stand  there  in  doubt 
— to  think  of  doing  anything  but  what  I 
say,"  Carolina  went  on.  "  See  the  clothes 
I  have  bought  you.  Do  you  know  what  I 
paid  in  Genova  for  that  dress,  that  hat,  those 
shoes  ?  Well,  I  paid  sixty  lire,  not  counting 
the  buttons  and  lining.  But  what  can  one 
expect  from  a  silly  girl  ?  I  buy  you  fine 
clothes,  I  bring  you  to  America  in  seoond 
class  like  a  signora.  I  offer  you  a  signore 
for  a  husband,  with  a  beautiful  house  to  live 
in.  But  you,  the  goose,  say  you  like  better 
to  dress  in  rags,  to  have  a  beggar  for  a  hus- 
band, to  starve,  to  live  in  the  streets ;  for 
into  the  streets  you  go,  remember,  if  you 
continue  to  play  the  fool." 

Carolina  was  no  stranger  to  the  lotus 
that  gives  languor  of  conscience  toward 
means  when  the  end  cries  for  attainment. 
Moreover,  her  present  mood  was  bordering 
desperation.  The  mishap  that  laid  her  low 
for  so  many  months  had  worn  off  her  veneer 
of  placidity,  and  she  returned  to  America 
much  the  same  galvanic  Italian  that  she  was 
231 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

the  day  she  first  set  foot  in  Castle  Garden — 
the  Carolina  of  pre-churchly  days,  who  flared 
up  and  left  her  brother's  roof  after  a  quarrel 
over  watermelons,  and  put  herself  under 
holy  orders.  Unluckily  for  her  peace  of 
mind,  while  she  lay  a  prisoner  in  the  moun- 
tains waiting  for  broken  bones  to  knit,  she 
had  received  advices  regularly  concerning 
affairs  at  Casa  Di  Bello — especially  affairs 
matrimonial.  The  letters  were  in  the  fine 
hand  of  the  public  writer  of  Mulberry, 
but  the  message  they  bore  came  from  Caro- 
lina's faithful  ally,  Angelica.  In  her  zeal  to 
serve,  the  cook  only  added  wormwood  to 
her  mistress's  cup  of  gall,  for  her  missives 
always  told  darkly  of  some  would-be  wife 
threatening  the  castle.  The  last  letter  had 
spoken  with  maddening  vagueness  of  a  crisis 
surely  at  hand,  and  Carolina's  instinct  told 
her  that  the  crisis  was  Juno.  For  this  rea- 
son she  had  sailed  a  week  before  the  day 
given  her  brother  as  the  one  of  her  intended 
departure.  How  could  she  remain  supine  in 
Genoa  when  Casa  Di  Bello  stood  menaced 
232 


The  Falcon  Saves  the  Dove 

with  an  invasion  that  meant  ruin  to  her 
fond  designs  ?  With  Juno  driven  back, 
Carolina  saw  the  battle  won,  for  she  had  no 
doubt  at  all  of  her  power  to  mould  the  will 
of  a  lovelorn  maid.  She  was  guilefully  con- 
fident that  there  would  arise  no  balk  to  her 
plans  through  Marianna's  refusal  to  be 
wived  by  Di  Bello,  for,  with  a  subtilty  deep 
set  in  her  nature,  she  had  counted  from  the 
outset,  other  arguments  failing,  that  she 
should  persuade  the  damsel  in  the  end  by 
the  homely  device  of  threatening  to  turn 
her  adrift.  Wherefore,  having  begun  the 
assault,  and  observing  that  this  line  of  tac- 
tics had  melted  Marianna  to  a  thoughtful 
silence,  she  followed  it  up  while  they  crossed 
the  ferry  from  Hoboken,  seated  in  a  cab, 
their  luggage  on  top.  As  they  rolled  over 
the  cobbles  of  the  lower  East  Side  and  the 
warm  breath  of  May  entered  the  window, 
Carolina  gave  her  picture  of  a  girl  homeless 
and  starving  in  the  big  city  many  a  convinc- 
ing touch.  At  Broadway,  chance  came  to 
her  aid  with  an  object  lesson.  There  was  a 
'6  233 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

cable-car  blockade,  and  while  the  cab  waited, 
a  haggard  woman,  young  but  aged  by  vice 
and  want,  put  her  open  hand  into  the  win- 
dow. Carolina  drove  her  away  with  an 
angry  word  and  a  contemptuous  stare. 

"  You  see  how  one  treats  beggars  in 
New  York,"  she  said  to  Marianna,  whose 
colour  had  all  gone.  "  You  would  be  like 
that  if  I  shut  the  door  on  you.  Who  do 
you  think  would  feed  you  if  I  turned  you 
out  ?  " 

Marianna  looked  upon  the  strange  faces 
that  passed  by,  and  something  she  saw  there 
— or  the  lack  of  something — in  the  eyes  of 
her  fellow-beings  struck  fresh  terror  to  her 
soul,  and  the  tears  came.  "Oh,  where  is 
Armando  ? "  she  asked  herself,  sobbing. 
Why  had  he  left  the  ship  without  her  ?  It 
was  all  his  fault.  He  should  have  taken  her 
with  him.  He  did  not  love  her,  and  would 
not  care  if  she  did  marry  Signer  Di  Bello. 
If  they  had  only  stayed  in  Italy — in  the 
mountains,  where  she  had  been  so  happy  ! 
She  would  have  remained  if  Armando  had. 
234 


The  Falcon  Saves  the  Dove 

She  knew  she  would,  in  spite  of  Carolina. 
But  he,  too,  was  a  fool.  All  was  lost 
now — their  love,  their  happiness.  But  for 
the  bust  he  would  have  stayed  at  home, 
perhaps — yes,  it  was  the  bust !  Maledic- 
tions upon  it  and  the  First  Lady  of  the 
Land! 

The  cab  dashed  under  the  roar  of  an 
Elevated  train.  Carolina  lay  back  in  the 
seat  and  regarded  her  charge  complacently, 
with  drooping  eyelids.  As  they  turned  into 
Mulberry  her  face  was  a  symbol  of  smug 
content.  She  felt  certain  now  of  a  manage- 
able wife  for  Casa  Di  Bello.  But  the  impe- 
rious tug  she  gave  the  brass  bell  handle  of 
Casa  Di  Bello  sounded  the  knell  of  her 
vivid  hopes.  The  door  opened,  and  she 
looked  into  the  awe-struck  face  of  Angelica. 
With  difficulty  the  cook  found  speech  for 
the  terrible  news :  Signor  Di  Bello  gone 
to  church  to  be  married — and  to  Juno  the 
Superb  !  Yes,  yes ;  the  Neapolitan  pig ! 
At  that  very  moment  they  must  be  stand- 
ing at  the  altar  of  San  Patrizio  !  Oh,  the 
235 


The  Last;  Lady  of  Mulberry 

grand  feast  that  awaited  them  !  See,  there 
was  the  table  all  laid  !  Ah,  such  wine,  such 
fruit !  All  there  under  the  fine  white  cloth  ! 
Soon  they  would  be  back  from  the  church, 
and  the  house  would  be  full  of  guests  eating 
and  drinking,  for  he  had  invited  the  first 
families  of  the  Torinesi,  Milanesi,  and  Ge- 
novesi,  besides  many  swine  from  the  south. 
And  all  for  a  Neapolitan  pig !  Santissima 
Vergine  ! 

Marianna  felt  that  she  would  like  to 
throw  herself  at  this  pig's  feet  and  kiss  them 
in  the  joy  of  her  deliverance,  while  Carolina 
gave  play  to  her  rage  in  a  storm  of  anathema 
against  her  brother  and  the  singer.  In  the 
thick  of  her  onset — all  rituals  of  conduct 
torn  to  shreds — the  door  bell  jingled  tragic- 
ally. With  bated  breath,  Angelica  turned 
the  knob,  and  Carolina  struck  a  pose  of  dis- 
dain in  the  hallway.  As  the  door  opened 
a  chorus  of  greetings  and  happy  auguries 
came  from  a  group  of  men  and  women  at 
the  threshold,  all  in  their  sprucest  Sunday 
array.  They  were  the  first  lot  of  invited 
236 


The  Falcon  Saves  the  Dove 

guests,  and  would  have  swarmed  in,  but 
Carolina  ordered  them  back. 

"  We  have  come  to  the  wedding  feast," 
they  protested.  "  Signer  Di  Bello  has  bid- 
den us." 

"  Begone,  you  ragabash  and  bobtail !  " 
said  Carolina,  and  she  slammed  the  door 
in  their  faces. 


237 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AT    THE    ALTAR    OF    SAN    PATRIZIO 

NEVER  did  wedding  barouche  so  gor- 
geous roll  over  the  asphalt  of  Mulberry  as 
the  one  in  which  Signor  Di  Bello  and  his 
bride  rode  to  church  ;  and  never  had  the 
people  beheld  such  an  illustrious  couple  in 
nuptial  parade.  With  an  overdone  mimicry 
of  the  princesses  and  duchesses  she  had 
watched  so  often  driving  in  the  Chiaja  of 
Naples,  Juno  sat  erect  and  grand  of  mien, 
deigning  scarcely  a  glance  to  right  or  left. 
Now  and  then  she  did  smile  with  a  feigned 
grace,  or  bow  with  mock  condescension  in 
response  to  some  wild  salvo  of  "  bravoes  " 
shot  as  they  passed  by  a  caffe  from  the 
throats  of  Signor  Di  Bello's  boon  comrades. 
Nor  did  these  salutes  meet  with  a  less  digni- 
238 


At  the  Altar  of  San  Patrizio 

fied  return  from  the  bridegroom.  His  old 
friends  wondered,  and  avowed  that  the  bub- 
bling merchant  was  not  himself  to-day. 
And,  in  truth,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
the  signore  had  put  on  an  air  of  loftiness 
and  gravity.  No  one  could  say  that  the 
radiant  creature  in  purple  by  his  side  sur- 
passed him  in  grandeur.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
example  of  Juno,  perhaps  the  witchery  of 
his  looking-glass.  An  hour  before,  arrayed 
in  evening  clothes  spick  and  span  from  the 
tailor,  who  had  worked  overtime,  Signer 
Di  Bello  had  viewed  his  mirrored  self  with 
much  approval  and  delight.  It  was  his  first 
dress  suit,  and  the  round  brow,  the  bushy 
hair,  and  the  King  Humbert  mustache 
showed  above  the  broad  field  of  shirt  front 
in  bolder  relief  and  a  light  that  was  new  to 
their  owner.  His  facial  likeness  to  the 
monarch  of  Italy  had  ever  been  a  spring  of 
secret  pride,  but  not  until  to-day,  when  he 
beheld  himself  in  royal  raiment,  had  the 
similitude  played  him  any  mental  pranks. 
Fondly  he  gazed  in  the  mirror's  verge,  and 
239 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

said  to  himself  :  "  Ah  !  that  is  the  head  of 
the  king,  and  the  head  is  on  my  shoulders." 
And  it  was  because  the  king  had  got  into 
that  head  so  badly  that  Signor  Di  Bello 
rode  to  his  wedding  with  the  stateliness  of  a 
royal  chief. 

At  length  the  plumed  steeds  turned  into 
the  Sicilian  quarter,  and  the  bridal  pair 
could  see  the  Gothic  fagade  of  San  Patri- 
zio  a  block  away.  At  this  stage  the  march 
lost  its  triumphal  flavour.  They  had  en- 
tered the  enemy's  country.  Here  the  dusky 
women  at  windows  breathed  no  auguries  of 
good  fortune,  and  the  white-shirted  men  on 
the  sidewalk,  idling  in  their  Sunday  best, 
had  no  "  bravo  "  for  the  distinguished  bride- 
groom. For  about  half  the  distance  the 
Genovese  and  his  Neapolitan  were  per- 
mitted to  pass  in  respect  if  not  in  love. 
Doubtless  this  silent  show  of  bad  blood 
would  have  continued  unbroken  till  the 
church  portals  were  reached,  but  for  the  act 
of  a  certain  earringed  fellow  who  stood  on  a 
low  balcony.  In  the  long  ago  his  eyes  had 
240 


At  the  Altar  of  San  Patrizio 

seen  Humbert,  and  now  he  was  struck  so 
hard  with  the  resemblance  borne  him  by  the 
man  in  the  carriage  that,  in  a  voice  ringing 
sharp  to  a  hundred  ears,  he  shouted  : 

"  Long  live  the  king  ! "  (Evviva  il 
re/") 

All  within  earshot  laughed  as  they  saw 
the  aptness  of  the  gibe,  and,  while  the  ba- 
rouche moved  along  slowly,  a  dozen  tongues 
by  turns  re-echoed  the  cry  with  derisive 
resonance  : 

"  Long  live  the  king  ! " 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  tell  from 
the  faces  of  Juno  and  Signor  Di  Bello 
whether  they  were  pleased  or  offended. 

Among  the  few  who  cried  out  was  a 
young  man  in  black  velveteen  coat  and  flow- 
ing cravat.  His  pallid  face  was  serious,  had 
a  puzzled  look,  and  his  "  Long  live  the 
king  !  "  did  not  smack  of  mockery.  He  fell 
in  beside  the  carriage,  and  kept  up  with  it, 
though  with  one  hand  he  lugged  a  large 
valise.  Twice  he  tripped  and  almost  fell  in 
his  effort  to  follow  without  taking  his  eyes 
241 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

off  Juno.  When  the  carriage  stopped  he 
stood  at  the  curbstone  as  though  enchained, 
fascinated  by  the  sight  of  her,  and  stared  half 
in  bewilderment  as  Signor  Di  Bello  with  a 
grand,  knightly  grace,  helped  her  to  alight. 
Then  he  ran  ahead,  set  down  his  valise,  and 
stood  at  the  church  door.  As  they  passed  in, 
his  gaze  still  fixed  upon  her  and  his  hands 
clasped  ecstatically,  he  exclaimed  in  a  voice 
that  all  could  hear : 

"  O  beautiful  signora  !  How  happy  I 
am  !  The  marble  does  not  lie  ! " 

"  Soul  of  an  ostrich  !  "  gasped  Signor  Di 
Bello,  clutching  the  little  silver-tipped  horn 
against  the  evil  eye  which  he  had  added  to 
his  watch  chain  that  morning.  "  What  the 
kangaroo  does  he  mean  ? " 

Juno  gave  no  answer.  In  the  vestibule 
a  mincing  sacristan,  low  of  bow  and  smiling, 
came  forward  to  meet  the  rich  merchant  and 
his  bride  and  conduct  them  at  once  to  the 
altar.  Already  a  frail  girl  in  pink  and  a 
hulking  fellow  clad  in  new  jeans  and 
fumbling  his  hat  were  at  the  rail  receiv- 
242 


At  the  Altar  of  San  Patrizio 

ing  a  wedlock  yoke.  In  the  rear  pews  sat 
other  wedding  parties,  awaiting  their  turns 
at  the  altar — solemn-faced  brides  and  listless 
grooms,  bridesmaids  in  gayest  feather,  best 
men  with  red  neckties,  aged  fathers  and 
mothers  half  asleep.  A  stream  of  opal  light 
from  the  clerestory  windows  fell  upon  these 
waiting  groups,  touching  their  coarse  faces 
with  a  ghastly  hue,  but  adding  a  mellow 
beauty  to  their  cheap  finery.  It  was  an 
hour  of  silent  prayer,  yet  none  the  less  a 
season  when  marrying  and  giving  in  mar- 
riage is  in  full  tide  at  San  Patrizio.  Save 
where  the  mating  couples  and  their  trains 
were  assembled,  every  pew  contained  a  row 
of  bowed  heads  that  were  covered  with 
shawls  or  gaudy  kerchiefs — the  heads  of 
gaunt-cheeked  age  whose  lips  never  ceased 
moving  in  prayer,  and  who  looked  up  at 
passers-by  with  the  eyes  of  a  dying  dog,  side 
by  side  with  the  gleaming  teeth  and  flash- 
ing eyes  of  swarthy  youth.  The  hush  was 
broken  when  the  priest  asked  the  names  of 
the  pairing  men  and  women.  Then  his 
243 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

voice  was  audible  only  in  the  foremost  seats. 
Wedding  parties  kept  arriving.  Always  a 
sacristan  met  them  at  the  holy-water  font, 
and,  with  a  monitory  finger  on  his  lips,  led 
them  to  a  rear.  pew.  These  were  the  com- 
moners of  Mulberry — the  toilers  with  hod 
or  sweat-shop  needle — who  in  funereal  sober- 
ness had  come  to  the  church  on  foot.  They 
could  wait.  But  for  Signer  Di  Bello  and 
Juno  there  was  no  delay.  As  they  passed 
up  the  aisle  Juno's  purple  satin  brushed  the 
rough-shod  feet  of  women  at  prayer,  pros- 
trate on  the  floor.  A  pew  had  been  reserved 
for  them  on  the  gospel  side.  When  the 
priest  caught  sight  of  Signor  Di  Bello,  he 
bustled  into  the  sacristy  to  put  on  a  differ- 
ent robe.  At  the  same  moment  the  man  of 
the  black  velveteen  moved  up  the  aisle  with 
quick,  smooth  step,  and  dropped  into  a  pew 
on  the  epistle  side,  well  forward,  from  which 
he  could  turn  and  watch  Juno.  Again  he  fas- 
tened upon  her  the  stare  that  never  flinched. 
For  the  first  time  since  she  had  entered 
upon  her  bigamous  adventure  she  felt  a 
244 


At  the  Altar  of  San  Patrizio 

twinge  of  misgiving.  Who  was  this  fellow 
with  his  big  eyes  always  upon  her  ?  Some 
friend  of  Bertino  aware  that  she  was  already 
a  wife  ?  The  priest  beckoned  them  before 
him,  and  as  they  approached  the  velveteen 
coat  slipped  into  a  seat  nearer  the  com- 
munion rail. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  asked  the  priest 
of  the  bridegroom. 

"  Giorgio  Di  Bello." 

"  And  yours  ?  "  of  the  bride. 

"  Juno  Castagna." 

"  A  lie  !  She  is  the  Presidentessa  !  "  It 
was  the  staring  man.  His  voice,  loud  and 
high  pitched,  resounded  through  the  church 
and  brought  up  every  row  of  bowed  heads. 
As  he  spoke  the  words  he  arose  and  left  the 
pew,  and  stood  close  to  the  three  at  the 
balustrade.  "  She  can  not  be  that,"  he 
went  on,  heedless  of  the  priest's  upraised 
hands.  "  She  must  be  the  Presidentessa." 

Signor  Di  Bello  seemed  ready  to  fall 
upon  the  intruder,  and  the  sacerdotal  hand 
restrained  him.  Two  sacristans  hurried  up 
245 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

the  aisle,  but  without  danger  to  praying 
women,  for  these  were  all  on  their  feet  now. 

"  The  Presidentessa,  I  tell  you — I  that 
know  so  well."  He  pointed  his  ringer  at 
the  bride.  Juno  had  winced  at  first,  but 
now  she  understood  it  all,  and  knew  she 
was  safe  for  the  present.  "  Did  I  not  make 
every  line  of  that  face  out  of  the  marble  ? 
Don't  believe  it,  father.  She  is  the  Presi- 
dentessa. Juno  !  Oh,  no,  no  !  Child  of  the 
Mother,  not  that !  Where  is  the  peacock,  if 
she  is  Juno  ?" 

By  this  time  the  assistants,  each  holding 
an  arm,  had  led  Armando  to  the  sacristy,  and 
closing  the  door,  smothered  the  last  part  of 
his  frantic  outburst.  The  priest  went  on 
with  the  ceremony,  but  every  bowed  head 
in  the  pews  had  been  lifted  and  every  eye 
and  ear  was  now  alert. 

"Giorgio  Di  Bello,  wilt  thou  take  this 
woman  to  be  thy  wife— 

"  Stop  !  In  the  name  of  the  good  God, 
stop  ! " 

The  words  were  shouted  from  the  rear 
246 


At  the  Altar  of  San  Patrizio 

of  the  church  by  Signor  Tomato,  who  hur- 
ried up  the  aisle,  while  the  three  at  the  altar 
stood  silent,  astounded. 

"That  woman  is  already  a  wife,"  the 
banker  continued,  puffing  as  though  he  had 
had  a  hard  run  for  it.  "I  swear  it  by  the 
Madonna  of  Mount  Carmel.  Her  hus- 
band is  alive.  Only  yesterday  I  saw  him, 
and  you  know  what  the  proverb  says : 
Once  a " 

"  Silence  ! "  commanded  the  priest.  "This 
is  no  no  place  for  oaths  or — proverbs." 

"  Bah  ! "  Signor  Di  Bello  broke  out 
"The  dog  is  crazy." 

The  priest  eyed  Juno  a  moment.  "  Well, 
what  do  you  say,  signorina  ?  " 

"  Don't  believe  him,  padre,"  she  answered. 
Then,  turning  to  the  banker:  "Stupid  one, 
you  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  It 
is  some  other  woman." 

The  banker  chuckled  grimly  and  nodded 

his  head  in  mock  concurrence.     "Ah,  yes; 

you  are  right.     I  do  not  know  you.     It  was 

some  other  woman.     Oh  that  it  had  been  ! 

247 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

But  alas  !  it  was  you — you,  the  last  lady,  and 
I,  poor  wretch,  thought  you  the  First  Lady 
— the  Presidentessa  ! " 

"The  Presidentessa  again?"  said  the 
priest,  bewildered, 

"  Yes,  padre.  So  it  was  she  tricked  us — 
me  and  her  husband.  Some  other  woman  ! 
Anima  mia!  Does  a  man  forget  the  face 
that  has  robbed  him  ?  In  marble  I  first  saw 
it,  and  never  has  it  left  me,  day  or  night. 
Ah,  the  trouble,  grand  trouble  it  has  brought 
me  !  Seven  hundred  liras  !  All  gone. — But 
you,  Signor  Di  Bello,  are  rich.  You  will 
pay  it  back.  You  will  be  grateful ;  for 
have  I  not  saved  you  from  this  woman  ? 
She  has  deceived  me,  she  has  deceived  her 
husband  ;  but  see,  I  do  not  let  her  deceive 
you." 

"  Go  away  and  mind  your  own  affairs," 
said  Signor  Di  Bello,  pushing  the  banker 
aside.  At  the  same  moment  the  assistants 
appeared  and  would  have  thrown  the  second 
intruder  into  the  sacristy  with  the  first,  but 
for  the  priest.  He  made  a  sign  for  them  to 
248 


At  the  Altar  of  San  Patrizio 

desist  ;  then  he  ordered  them  to  drive  back 
and  out  of  the  church  the  women,  girls,  and 
men  who  were  crowding  before  the  altar. 
When  at  last  the  doors  were  closed  and  the 
hubbub  without  had  become  a  faint  mur- 
mur, the  priest  said : 

"  You  must  wait  for  a  week,  Signor 
Di  Bello.  Then,  if  I  find  that  all  is  well, 
you  may  come  back  and  I  will  marry  you." 

"  Bravo  ! "  cried  the  banker. 

"  Silence  !  Come  to  me  Tuesday  with 
the  man  you  say  is  this  woman's  hus- 
band." 

"  Si,  padre,"  said  the  banker.  "  I  shall 
be  here." 

Juno  took  the  happening  more  seriously 
than  Signor  Di  Bello  did.  "  What  matters  it 
if  two  crazy  donkeys  do  wag  their  tongues  ? " 
he  said,  on  the  way  down  the  aisle  to  the 
door.  "  You  are  mine,  and  nothing  else 
matters.  In  a  week  we  shall  laugh  at  these 
meddlers — the  priest  as  well."  But  Juno 
knew  that  the  disclosures  which  the  signore 
did  not  believe  meant  the  collapse  of  her 
17  249 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

reckless  scheme.  Plainly  the  banker  and 
Bertino  had  met,  and  the  history  of  the 
bust  as  well  as  the  secret  of  their  marriage 
had  come  out.  And  they  would  meet  again 
before  Bertino  should  receive  her  letter 
warning  him  to  fly  from  the  imaginary  dan- 
ger. In  a  few  hours  her  husband  would 
know  that  his  uncle  not  only  lived,  but  had 
sought  to  appropriate  his  wife.  What  fire- 
brands of  vendetta  /  Now  it  was  she  who 
should  have  to  fly,  else  feel  the  temper  of 
Bertino's  knife.  What  a  blockhead  she  had 
been  to  put  off  so  long  the  writing  of  that 
letter !  Had  she  sent  it  two  or  three  days 
ago,  he  would  be  far  from  New  York  now, 
perhaps  out  of  America. 

When  the  doors  opened  for  them  to  pass 
into  the  street  they  found  the  church  steps 
thronged  with  the  populace  of  Mulberry. 
Word  of  the  doings  at  the  altar  had  gone 
abroad,  and  the  appearance  of  the  brideless 
groom  and  the  groomless  bride  was  the  sig- 
nal for  a  shower  of  jeers  and  derisive  greet- 
ings. But  the  signore  mustered  a  bold 
250 


At  the  Altar  of  San  Patrizio 

front  and  proved  himself  worthy  of  his 
royal  resemblance. 

"  We  shall  go  to  Casa  Di  Bello,"  he  said 
as  they  entered  the  carnage,  "  and  have  the 
wedding  feast  just  as  though  that  noodle  of 
a  priest  had  not  refused  to  marry  you.  And 
why  not  ?  It  will  only  be  observing  the 
event  a  week  in  advance  ;  for  next  Sunday 
the  priest  will  see  that  these  meddlers  have 
made  a  fool  of  him,  and  he  will  be  glad  to 
marry  you  to  Signor  Di  Bello.  Now  for 
the  diversions  of  the  feast  of  the  marriage." 

He  threw  off  the  lid  of  a  large  pasteboard 
box  that  the  driver  handed  down  and  took 
out  a  handful  of  candy  beans  of  many  colors, 
the  size  of  limas.  With  them  he  pelted  the 
people  in  front  of  the  church,  who  put  up 
their  hands  for  protection,  and  quickly 
returned  wishes  of  good  luck,  for  this  hail 
of  sweets  always  comes  after  the  church 
rites.  The  people  thought  they  had  been 
married,  after  all,  which  was  just  the  effect 
that  Signor  Di  Bello  was  willing  his  joke 
should  have.  As  they  passed  the  church- 
251 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

yard  the  signore  shouted  to  a  man  perched 
on  the  wall  to  let  the  nuptial  birds  go. 
Next  moment  there  arose  three  pigeons 
with  white  streamers  attached  to  their  legs 
to  insure  their  recapture  ;  it  is  an  ill  omen 
for  one  to  gain  its  freedom.  This  was  a 
Neapolitan  rite  in  reverence  of  the  Madon- 
na and  the  Padre  Eterno  which  Juno  had 
asked  for. 

They  could  have  turned  the  corner  and 
driven  one  block  to  Casa  Di  Bello,  whose 
dormer  windows  were  visible  over  the 
monuments  of  the  graveyard  ;  but  the  sig- 
nore, determined  that  the  observance  should 
be  in  every  respect  like  thajt  for  a  genuine 
wedding,  ordered  the  coachman  to  make  a 
tour  of  Mulberry.  Up  and  down  they  drove, 
he  showering  the  hard  and  heavy  sweets  and 
receiving  noisy  felicitations  all  along  the 
way.  He  had  dropped  his  regal  bearing 
and  was  all  a-smile  now.  His  old  comrades 
rejoiced  to  see  that  he  was  himself  again. 

"  See  what  marriage  does  for  one,"  re- 
marked Cavalliere  Bruno,  the  wit  of  Gaffe 
252 


At  the  Altar  of  San  Patrizio 

Good  Appetite.  "  Our  comrade  goes  forth 
to  the  altar  like  a  king,  and  comes  back  like 
a  gentleman." 

But  the  broad  smiles  vanished  from  the 
signore's  face  when  they  drew  near  to  Casa 
Di  Bello.  Before  the  door  stood  a  cab  on 
whose  top  lay  a  trunk  of  ancient  pattern 
that  he  knew  too  well.  On  the  sidewalk, 
gesturing  madly,  were  the  leading  families  of 
the  Torinesi,  the  Milanesi,  and  the  Genovesi, 
with  a  scant  sprinkling  of  southern  tribes. 
They  surrounded  the  barouche  and  shook 
their  fists  at  the  occupants.  A  fine  trick, 
indeed  !  A  joke,  perhaps,  but  not  the  joke 
of  a  signore.  Ask  people  to  a  wedding 
feast,  and  then  have  the  door  slammed  in 
their  faces ! 

"  Oh,  misery  is  mine  ! "  groaned  Signer 
Di  Bello,  but  for  a  reason  more  terrible  than 
the  tumult  of  the  barred-out  guests.  That 
trunk  on  the  cab  had  told  him  the  withering 
truth.  "  She  is  here,"  he  whimpered,  his 
courage  all  gone,  and  cold  despair  leaving 
his  arms  limp  at  his  side. 
253 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"What  is  amiss?"  asked  Juno,  and  the 
others  stopped  their  hullabaloo. 

"  You  must  go  to  your  lodging,"  he  said. 
— "  Coachman,  drive  to  the  Restaurant  of 
Santa  Lucia. — My  friends,  the  wedding 
feast  is  postponed  until  next  Sunday." 

The  carriage  wheeled  about  and  dashed 
away,  leaving  the  first  families  aching  with 
mystification. 


254 


CHAPTER   XIX 

EVENTS    WAIT    UPON    THE    DANDELIONS 

IN  the  quiet  of  the  sacristy  the  priest 
listened  to  the  stories  of  Armando  and  the 
banker,  and  gained  a  clear  knowledge  of 
Juno's  fantastic  plot  to  secure  a  marble  por- 
trait and  a  rich  husband.  So  true  did  it  all 
ring  that  Father  Nicodemo  saw  no  pressing 
need  to  search  the  records  of  the  city's 
Bureau  of  Vital  Statistics.  He  told  Signer 
Tomato  it  would  be  enough  that  he  bring 
the  husband  in  evidence,  and  he,  the  priest, 
would  see  to  it  that  the  woman  was  con- 
fronted with  him  and  the  truth  drawn  from 
her  own  lips.  The  holy  man  saw  in  their 
timely  interruption  an  act  of  Providence 
that  had  saved  San  Patrizio  from  being  the 
scene  of  a  horrid  sin.  But  to  Armando  the 
255 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

situation  had  nothing  to  offer  of  comfort. 
The  work  of  his  life  had  come  to  naught. 
The  bust  that  was  to  make  him  a  high  figure 
in  the  American  market  had  been  turned 
with  cruel  suddenness  to  a  bit  of  unvalued 
stone.  Oh,  the  mockery  of  it !  Instead  of 
the  First  Lady  of  the  Land,  he  had  given 
his  heart  and  hand  and  brain  to  what  ? — the 
Last  Lady  of  Mulberry  !  To  the  sculptor's 
plaint  the  banker  added  his,  and  the  priest, 
feeling  for  them  warmly,  and  knowing  no 
deed  that  could  help,  offered  them  the  ano- 
dyne of  words.  Fellows  in  misery,  they  left 
the  church  together,  after  Armando  had 
searched  for  and  recovered  the  valise  that  he 
had  flung  down,  he  knew  not  where,  when 
he  followed  Juno  to  the  altar.  Side  by  side 
they  walked  through  Mulberry,  exchanging 
doleful  tales.  They  were  passing  before 
Casa  Di  Bello,  when  Signor  Tomato  halted 
abruptly  and  said  : 

"  Behold,   comrade,   the  root  of  all   our 
woe  !     She  wanted  to  get  into  that   house. 
Bertino  has  told  me   all.       But    Fate    has 
256 


Events  Wait  Upon  the  Dandelions 

beaten  her  as  well  as  us.  Twixt  the  wish 
and  the  prize  high  mountains  arise." 

They  stood  a  moment  looking  up  at  the 
windows,  when  the  massive  door  swung 
open,  and  Marianna,  clearing  the  steps  at 
a  bound,  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of 
Armando,  who,  by  the  lucky  chance  of 
having  just  set  down  his  burdensome  va- 
lise, was  ready  to  receive  her  with  equal 
fervour. 

"Joy!  Grand  joy!"  she  cried.  "He 
is  married,  and  we  are  saved." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  banker.  "  I  will 
go.  Addio,  my  friend ;  we  shall  meet 
again." 

Muttering  a  proverb,  he  made  off  for  the 
Gaffe  of  the  Three  Gardens,  where  he  in- 
tended to  put  up  for  the  night  in  order 
to  be  on  hand  for  the  early  morning  mar- 
ket and  dispose  of  his  remaining  dande- 
lions. 

"  Saved  ? "  said  Armando  in  mournful 
wonder.  "  Glory  to  the  Splendid  Name,  I 
have  found  you — you  are  left  to  me,  my 
257 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

precious,  but  all  else  is  lost.    You  remember 
my  Juno  and  the  Peacock  ?" 

"  The  hogs  of  Genoa  had  no  eyes  for  its 
beauty,"  she  answered. 

"  Well,  I  have  made  another  Juno." 
"  Dio  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 
"The  Presidentessa  is  a  Juno." 
They  seated  themselves  on  the  top  stair 
of  the  stoop,  and  dolefully  Armando  went 
over  the  episode  at  the  church.  In  a  voice 
that  took  flights  of  passion  and  with  gestures 
theatric  he  gave  again  the  cries  of  "  Long  live 
the  king ! "  that  resounded  in  the  Sicilian 
quarter,  and  re-enacted  the  drama  at  the  altar. 
Bitterly  he  told  of  his  delusion  that  the 
haughty  woman  in  the  carriage  was  the  Pre- 
sidentessa, and  how  the  spell  lasted  until  the 
sacristans  broke  it  by  gripping  his  arms.  He 
made  known  to  her  a  secret  that  the  banker 
had  disclosed  to  the  priest  but  had  guarded 
in  the  presence  of  Signor  Di  Bello  :  Juno's 
husband  was  Bertino  ! 

So  wrapped  was  Armando  in  the  telling 
and  Marianna  in  the  listening  that  neither 
258 


Events  Wait  Upon  the  Dandelions 

heard  the  soft  footfall  of  Aunt  Carolina,  who 
had  drawn  near  and  stood  at  the  open  door 
drinking  in  the  delicious  narrative.  When 
he  said  that  the  priest  had  put  off  the  mar- 
riage for  a  week  so  that  the  banker  might 
have  time  to  present  his  proofs  she  could 
repress  her  exultation  no  longer.  With  an 
outcry  of  delight  she  startled  the  young 
people  to  their  feet. 

"  Sanctified  be  the  name  of  Father  Nico- 
demo,  and  Maria  the  Spotless  preserve  Ber- 
tino  forever ! " 

Marianna  and  Armando  stood  abashed 
because  detected  in  the  crime  of  being  to- 
gether on  land  after  all  Carolina's  pains  to 
keep  them  apart  on  shipboard.  To  his 
further  confusion,  she  put  forth  her  hand  and 
bade  him  enter  the  house.  She  would  know 
more  of  Signor  Tomato,  this  man  who  had 
Bertino  in  his  keeping.  Whither  had  he 
removed  the  bust  ?  Where  was  Bertino  to 
be  found  ?  Armando  was  able  to  answer 
both  questions ;  also  to  recite  the  facts 
about  Bertino's  harmless  knife-play  upon  his 
259 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

uncle's  shoulder,  his  flight  from  the  city,  and 
the  finding  of  him  by  the  banker  asleep  in  a 
water  pipe. 

While  Armando's  message  gave  Carolina 
the  elation  of  promised  triumph,  it  brought 
gloom  to  Marianna.  Well  the  girl  read 
the  soul  of  her  guardian.  Surely  this 
sudden  revival  of  Carolina's  spirits  had  but 
one  meaning — a  return  to  the  scheme  of 
uniting  her  in  marriage  with  Signor  Di 
Bello.  But  the  horrid  prospect  did  not 
strike  so  much  terror  to  her  soul  now,  for 
there  dwelt  a  sweet  assurance  in  the  face  of 
Armando,  who  was  by  her  side.  He  would 
stand  between  her  and  this  nuptial  danger. 
She  felt  a  strength  equal  to  a  firm  repulse 
of  Carolina — a  strength  that  was  lacking 
two  hours  before  in  that  awful  drive  from 
the  steamship. 

For  the  first  time  the  gristly  heart  of 
Carolina  pulsed  almost  warmly  for  Bertino. 
Now  he  stood  forth  in  white  light  as  the 
blessed  agent  who  had  kept  Juno  out  of  that 
house — the  knight  who  had  slain  the  dragon 
260 


Events  Wait  Upon  the  Dandelions 

of  a  threatening  wife  by  marrying  her.  For 
once  the  truth  burned  into  her  consciousness 
that  marriage  was  a  crowning  success.  Only 
one  more  union — that  of  her  brother  and 
Marianna — and  the  strife  would  be  over,  her 
power  firmly  embedded.  She  would  go  to 
Bertino  at  once  and  lend  him  the  aid  he 
needed  ;  at  the  same  time  she  would  gratify 
her  thirst  to  make  sure  that  all  was  as  Ar- 
mando had  recounted. 

"  To-morrow,"  Armando  said,  "  I  am 
going  to  Jamaica  with  Signor  Tomato.  The 
signorina  could  accompany  us.  Then  we 
shall  see  poor  Bertino  and — my  poor  marble." 

"  Perhaps  it  shall  not  prove  such  a  poor 
marble,"  she  said,  with  a  look  and  nodding 
of  the  head  that  suggested  some  future  act 
of  gratitude  for  the  helpful  service  to  her 
cause  which  the  bust  had  rendered.  "  When 
shall  you  set  off  for  Jamaica  ?" 

"  As  soon  as  Signor  Tomato  has  sold  out 
his  dandelions." 

He  promised  to  inform  her  directly  that 
urgent  purpose  should  be  accomplished  and 
261 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

attend  her  on  the  journey  to  Jamaica.  But 
where  was  Signer  Di  Bello  ?  A  shuddering 
dread  showed  itself  in  Carolina's  face  as  she 
asked  the  question,  which  no  one  could  an- 
swer. Had  he  gone  elsewhere  for  a  priest, 
and  would  he  return  after  all  with  the  singer 
and  that  mob  of  Calabriani,  Siciliani,  and 
Napolitani  pigs  ? 

At  that  particular  moment  her  brother 
was  quaffing  a  glass  of  his  favourite  barbera 
in  the  Gaffe  of  the  Three  Gardens,  whither  he 
had  driven  to  buttress  his  nerve  after  setting 
down  Juno  at  her  lodgings.  The  ordeal  of 
facing  Carolina  and  explaining  matters  was 
one  that  he  shrank  from  meeting  without  due 
consideration  and  the  aid  of  vinous  fortitude. 

"  Courage,  my  angel,"  he  had  said,  as  he 
handed  Juno  from  the  carriage.  "  On  the 
Feast  of  Sunday  next  all  will  be  well.  Father 
Nicodemo  will  find  that  he  has  been  the 
plaything  of  idiots,  and  you  shall  go  with  me 
to  Casa  Di  Bello." 

Lifting  her  purple  skirts  clear  of  the 
sidewalk,  and  taking  care  that  they  did  not 
262 


Events  Wait  Upon  the  Dandelions 

brush  the  shabby  staircase,  Juno  climbed  to 
the  door  of  Luigia  the  Garlic  Woman.  To 
the  astonished  landlady  she  observed  calmly  : 

"  Signora,  I  shall  need  the  room  for  an- 
other week." 

"  But  how  is  this  ?  You  go  to  church  to 
be  married,  and  you  return  without  a  hus- 
band. Body  of  an  elephant !  Brides  did 
not  so  in  my  day." 

Without  making  reply  Juno  went  to  her 
little  dark  room  and,  removing  the  wedding 
finery,  folded  the  dress  with  great  care,  put 
it  in  the  trunk,  with  the  yellow  boots  on 
top,  and  closed  the  lid. 

"  Maybe  I  shall  need  them,  after  all,"  she 
told  herself. 

The  recollection  that  her  trump  card  had 
not  been  played  gave  back  her  hope  of  yet 
entering  Casa  Di  Bello. 

The  presence  of  Signer  Di  Bello,  alone 
and  long  of  face,  at  the  Three  Gardens 
brought  upon  his  head  a  rain  of  banter  from 
a  dozen  boon  comrades.  When  the  storm 
of  gibes  and  rib-tickling  surmises  as  to  the 
263 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

cause  of  his  wifeless  state  had  reached  its 
height  the  form  of  the  banker  darkened  the 
door.  Signor  Di  Bello  jumped  to  his  feet, 
and,  taking  the  middle  of  the  smoky  room, 
brandished  his  finger  dramatically  at  the  new- 
comer. 

"There,  signori !"  he  cried,  bulging  with 
fury,  "  there  is  the  dog  that  barked  away  my 
bride  !  A  meddler,  a  numskull !  He  comes 
from  Satan  knows  where  with  a  cock-and- 
bull  tale  about  somebody — Heaven  knows 
whom — somebody  who  is  the  husband  of 
my  promised  bride.  A  simpleton  of  a 
priest  swallows  his  story  like  a  forkful  of 
spaghetti,  and,  presto  !  my  wedding  is  put 
off  for  a  week  !  By  the  Egg  of  Colum- 
bus, a  fine  team  of  donkeys  ! " 

"  Infame  !  infame  /  "  came  from  the  men 
at  the  tables,  which  resounded  with  the 
blows  of  their  horny  fists. 

Bridget  would  have  been  proud  of  her 

Tomato   could    she    have  seen    him    at  this 

crucial  moment.     Fine  was  the  scorn  with 

which    he    looked    from    face   to  face,   and, 

264 


Events  Wait  Upon  the  Dandelions 

smiling  in  imperial  contempt  of  the  whole 
company,  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"  There  is  a  proverb,  signori,"  he  said, 
"  which  comes  to  me  at  this  moment : 
Some  men  heave  a  sigh  when  the  sun 
shows  his  eye." 

"  Bah  ! "  roared  Signor  Di  Bello.  "  Did 
I  not  tell  you,  my  friends,  that  his  head  is 
filled  wi|h  polenta  f  "  (corn-meal  mush.) 

"  And  yours  has  not  even  polenta  in  it ! " 
retorted  the  banker,  rising  and  clapping  his 
hands  close  to  Signor  Di  Bello's  face.  "  If 
it  were  not  empty,  do  you  know  what  you 
would  do  ?  You  would  thank  me  for  what 
I  have  done  to-day.  Would  you  have  me 
tell  the  name  of  this  husband  whom  nobody 
knows,  who  comes  from  Satan  knows  where  ? 
Would  you?" 

"  The  name  !  The  name  ! "  from  Signor 
Di  Bello  and  the  others. 

"  Well,  his  name  is  Bertino  Manconi. 
Do  you  know  him  ?  No  ?  I  will  tell  you  : 
he  is  your  nephew.  He  comes  from  Genoa. 
Do  you  know  where  that  is  ?  He  once  put 

18  265 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

a  knife  into  your  shoulder  because  he  caught 
you  playing  the  fool  with  his  wife.  Do  you 
remember  that  ?  " 

"Where  is  Bertino?"  asked  Signer  Di 
Bello,  his  voice  grave  and  husky,  every 
other  tongue  in  the  room  silenced. 

"  At  my  villa  in  the  country.  To-mor- 
row you  shall  see  him  if  you  come  with  me." 

"  I  will  go  with  you." 

"  Very  good.  When  my  dandelions  are 
sold  out  I  shall  be  at  your  disposal." 

It  was  long  past  the  dinner  hour  when 
Aunt  Carolina  heard  the  sound  of  her 
brother's  latch-key  in  the  lock.  She  was 
in  the  hall  when  he  entered.  He  did  not 
feign  surprise  at  seeing  her.  They  em- 
braced, and  kissed  each  other  on  both 
cheeks. 

"  You  are  home  a  week  before  I  expected 
you,"  he  said. 

"  Yes  ;  I  could  not  leave  you  alone  any 
longer.  Ah  !  my  dear  brother,  San  Giorgio 
has  watched  over  us  this  day." 

"  Why  ? "  he  asked,  though  aware  that 
266 


Events  Wait  Upon  the  Dandelions 

she,  like  all  Mulberry,  knew  of  his  disap- 
pointment, and  meant  his  deliverance  from 
Juno. 

Carolina  answered,  pointing  to  the  un- 
touched wedding  feast :  "  We  have  many 
sweets  that  will  not  keep.  They  will  be  of 
use  to  Father  Nicodemo  for  his  poor." 

She  could  not  resist  sounding  a  stealthy 
note  of  triumph.  A  few  hours  before  he 
would  have  answered,  "The  sweets  will  keep 
a  week,  and  then  I  shall  need  them  for  my 
wedding  feast."  But  since  the  bout  with 
Tomato  his  hope  had  waned  steadily,  just 
as  the  conviction  had  grown  stronger  that 
the  banker's  case  against  Juno  would  be 
proved.  Morose  of  spirit  he  sought  his  bed, 
sighing  as  he  reflected  how  ruthlessly  the 
events  of  the  day  had  shattered  his  long- 
fondled  dreams. 


267 


CHAPTER  XX 

A     HOUSE     DIVIDED 

A  TRAIN  for  Jamaica  next  morning  car- 
ried four  anxious  souls  from  Mulberry.  In 
one  car  were  Signori  Di  Bello  and  Tomato, 
in  another  Carolina  and  Armando.  The 
banker  had  agreed  to  meet  Armando  at  the 
country  station  ;  but  the  sculptor  had  given 
no  hint  that  he  would  have  Carolina  in  com- 
pany, nor  did  either  of  the  latter  dream  of 
finding  Signor  Di  Bello  with  the  banker. 
They  all  met  on  the  station  platform.  At 
sight  of  Carolina  her  brother  divined  her 
state  of  mind.  He  knew  that  her  presence 
meant  the  first  advance  of  a  revived  era  of 
meddling  in  his  love  affairs,  and  with  the  per- 
versity of  the  ripe-aged  swain  he  resented  it 
as  stoutly  as  though  his  own  judgment  about 
268 


A  House  Divided 

woman  had  not  just  been  caught  soundly 
napping. 

"  You  have  come  to  see  the  husband  of 
your  brother's  bride,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
"  You  are  glad  to  be  near  to  see  me  made  a 
fool  of,  nek  ?  " 

11  No,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  seek  only  the 
proofs  that  Casa  Di  Bello  is  not  to  be  dis- 
graced." 

They  climbed  into  a  creaky,  swaying 
stage  that  the  banker  hired  to  convey  them 
to  the  iron  villa. 

"  It  was  you  that  said  she  was  the  Presi- 
dentessa,"  broke  out  the  signore,  eying  Ar- 
mando on  the  opposite  seat.  "  What  the 
porcupine  did  you  mean  ? " 

As  the  decrepit  stage  squeaked  through 
the  village,  plunging  and  tossing  on  its  fee- 
ble springs  like  a  boat  in  a  choppy  sea,  Ar- 
mando gave  the  history  of  the  Last  Lady — 
the  jugglery  of  the  photographs,  of  which 
the  banker  had  told  him  ;  his  months  of  fruit- 
less toil  on  the  second  Juno  following  a  year 
lost  on  the  first. 

269 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"Ah,  signore,"  he  added,  yielding  to  a 
blank  sense  of  desolation,  "  surely  the  evil 
eye  has  fallen  upon  me  and  I  am  doomed 
to  fiasco." 

"  Body  of  a  rhinoceros  ! "  was  Signor  Di 
Bello's  first  comment.  Then  he  added,  after 
an  apparent  mental  struggle  with  the  stub- 
born truth  :  "  Yes ;  she  has  made  grand 
trouble  for  you,  but  you  shall  not  suffer.  I 
will  buy  your  Juno  and  the  Peacock  and — 
the  other  Juno,  if  only  to  smash  it  in  a  thou- 
sand pieces  ! " 

"  Will  you  pay  me  back  the  Dogana, 
signore  ?  "  put  in  the  banker,  striking  the  hot 
iron.  "  I  too  have  been  ruined  by  the  Last 
Lady." 

"  Excuse  me,  signore  ;  you  are  old  enough 
to  know  better." 

"And  so  are  you,"  chirped  Tomato, 
whereat  Signor  Di  Bello  held  his  tongue. 

They  had  left  the  village  street   behind 

and  were  tottering  over  a  rude  wagon  trail 

that  threaded  the  thicket  of  dwarf  oaks  on 

whose  margin  crouched  the  dwelling  of  the 

270 


A  House  Divided 

Tomatoes.  The  site  of  the  iron  villa  was 
not  far  distant,  and  from  its  kitchen  chimney 
a  spiral  of  ascending  smoke  showed  plainly 
in  the  sunlight  that  bathed  the  flat  land- 
scape. From  the  railroad  cut  the  muffled 
roar  of  a  passing  train  lent  a  basso  under- 
tone to  the  squeak  and  clack  of  the  voluble 
stage.  At  length  they  struck  into  the  road 
that  borders  the  railway,  and  the  banker 
leaned  out  of  the  vehicle  and  peered  ahead, 
wondering  if  all  were  well  with  Bridget  and 
the  youngsters.  As  he  drew  nearer,  the 
deeper  became  a  look  of  horror  that  had 
come  upon  his  face. 

"Diavolof"  he  exclaimed  at  last.  "A 
new  calamity  ! " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Half  of  my  house  is  gone." 

One  woe-begone  pipe  was  all  that  he 
could  see  of  the  imposing  double-tubed  villa 
that  reclined  there  so  proudly  two  days 
before.  Stripped  of  the  foliage  that  had 
shielded  it  and  its  mate  from  the  burning 
sun,  it  loomed  black  in  ominous  nakedness. 
271 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Had  further  evidence  of  disaster  been 
needful,  the  countenance  of  Bridget  would 
have  supplied  it  abundantly.  Like  a  femi- 
nine Marius,  she  sat  amid  the  ruins  of  the 
Tomato  Carthage.  Strewn  about  her  in  wild 
disorder  were  the  twigs  of  oak  that  had  been 
so  carefully  fashioned  over  the  pipes,  mingled 
with  the  bedclothes  and  boxes  that  had 
furnished  the  interior  of  the  dormitory. 
The  little  garden  of  tomato  plants  that  had 
been  set  out  at  the  back  doors  bore  the 
vandal  marks  of  hobnailed  boots  and  was 
slashed  with  the  tracks  of  heavy  wheels. 

"Where's  the  other  pipe?"  shrieked 
the  banker  before  the  stage  came  to  a 
stop. 

"  Howly  shamrock,  Domenico,  is  it  yer- 
silf  ?  Sure  I  thought  they  was  comin'  for 
the  rest  iv  the  house.  Where  aire  ye  these 
two  days,  and  the  worruld  comin'  to  an  ind 
all  around  us  ?  " 

"  No  ees-a  maka  differenza  where  I'm 
goin'  be,"  he  said,  jumping  down,  followed 
by  Signer  Di  Bello,  Carolina,  and  Arman- 
272 


A  House  Divided 

do.      "  I    ask-a    you   where    ees-a   de   oder 
pipa?" 

"  Ax  the  divvil  and  he'll  tell  yer  bet- 
ther,  for  the  ground  has  opened  and  shwal- 
leyed  it." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  whoops  at  the 
edge  of  the  brush,  and  the  trio  of  juvenile 
Tomatoes  came  trooping  toward  their  father. 

"  What-a  kind  talk  you  call-a  dees-a?" 
he  said,  glaring  at  Bridget  and  pushing  away 
the  children  fiercely.  "  I  ask-a  you,  where 
ees-a  de  pipa  ?  " 

"  And  I  answer  that  I  don't  knaw,  Domi- 
nick  Tomah-toe  !  Me  and  the  childer  was 
away  beyandt  there,  pickin'  dandelie-yuns, 
d'ye  moind  !  Be  the  sun,  I'm  thinkin'  we 
was  gone  two  hours.  Well,  whin  we  got 
back  only  the  wan  pipe  was  there,  and  a 
cushibaloo  made  iv  the  place  as  ye  see  it 
now." 

"And  Bertino,  where  ees-a?" 

"  Gone  wid  the  pipe." 

"  Goin*  weet  de  pipa?"  echoed  the 
others. 

273 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"Didn't  I  say  it?" 

"And  de  bust-a,  ees-a  where?"  asked 
Signor  Di  Bello. 

"  Gone  wid  the  pipe." 

"  Bravo  ! "  cried  the  grocer,  who  saw  the 
case  against  Juno  crumbling.  Locking  his 
hands  behind  him,  he  began  to  whistle 
cheerfully,  his  eyes  on  the  moving  pictures 
of  the  sky. 

"  Shame  to  you,  my  brother ! "  broke 
out  Carolina.  Then  she  took  the  witness 
in  hand.  "  When  you  have  seen-a  Bertino 
— de  last-a  time,  ees-a  when  ?  " 

"  Airly  this  mornin'  whin  we  wint  for 
the  dandelie-yuns,  me  and  the  childer  here." 

"  And  he  no  more  coma  back  ?" 

"  Divvil  a  hair  iv  him." 

"  Bravo  ! "  again  from  the  grocer,  the 
last  barrier  between  him  and  Juno  lev- 
elled. 

"Where  he  say  he  go?"  asked  Caro- 
lina. 

"  Well,  mum,  if  I  understud  his  dog 
Italian  and  his  hog  English,  he  said  he  was 
274 


A  House  Divided 

goin'  to  Jamaiky  to  ax  at  the  post  arface 
was  there  a  letter  from  somebody  in  Mul- 
berry." 

•  •  •  •  •  * 

Signor  Di  Bello  returned  to  New  York 
in  high  spirits.  Whether  the  proofs  of 
Juno's  attempted  bigamy  were  and  always 
had  been  myths  of  Tomato's  fancy  was  not 
the  question  that  seemed  to  him  of  most 
import  now.  What  towered  above  all  else 
was  the  monolithic  fact  that  the  proofs  were 
missing,  and  Juno  might  be  his,  after  all. 
As  the  wish  gained  firmer  hold  on  the 
thought,  he  began  to  view  the  doings  of  the 
past  two  days  as  moves  in  a  miscarried  plot 
of  his  sister's  to  cheat  him  of  the  woman 
who  challenged  his  taste. 

In  the  train  he  sat  apart  from  Carolina 
and  Armando  and  nursed  his  delight.  They 
could  see  that  he  was  gloating  over  the 
events  that  had  cast  them  into  hopeless 
gloom.  And  while  they  brooded,  Signor  Di 
Bello  replanned  his  wedding.  Arrived  in 
Mulberry,  he  made  straight  for  the  Restau- 
275 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

rant  of  Santa  Lucia  and  caroled  the  trium- 
phant tidings  to  Juno. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  they  were  a  flock  of 
geese  ? "  he  said,  passing  the  bottle  of  bar- 
ber a.  "  There  was  no  bust,  and,  of  course, 
no  husband.  But  there  will  be  a  husband 
on  the  Feast  of  Sunday,  my  very  sympa- 
thetic one,"  he  cooed. 

"Ah  !  Bertino  has  received  my  letter 
and  fled,"  she  mused  under  her  fallen  eye- 
lids as  she  tipped  the  glass. 

That  evening  Signer  Di  Bello  observed 
to  Carolina  : 

"  There  will  be  a  wedding  in  this  house 
next  Sunday.  The  priest  will  not  be  the 
harebrained  Father  Nicodemo.  I  shall  in- 
vite many  of  my  Genovese  friends,  some 
Milanesi,  some  Torinesi,  and  a  few  of  the 
first  families  of  the  Calabriani,  the  Siciliani, 
and  the  Napolitani,  for  I  am  a  man  above 
race  prejudice." 

It  was  what  she  had  dreaded  since  the 
moment  Bridget  made  known  the  fact  of  Ber- 
tino's  melting  away.  Convinced — without 
276 


A  House  Divided 

proof,  however — that  Juno  was  his  wife,  she 
had  resolved  never  to  live  under  a  bigamous 
roof,  though  she  might,  with  a  wife  of  her 
own  selection,  endure  life  in  a  monogamous 
household.  Wherefore  she  would  secede 
from  Casa  Di  Bello — embrace  again  the 
rubric  peace  of  the  anagamous  rectory. 
Father  Nicodemo  had  given  her  repeated 
assurance  that  the  latchstring  was  always 
hanging  out ;  that  the  spaghetti  sauces  had 
never  been  proper  since  she  left ;  that  they 
had  despaired  of  having  a  palatable  dish  of 
boiled  snails  fricasseed  with  pepper  pods. 

"  Very  well,  my  brother,"  she  returned 
frostily  ;  "  when  that  Neapolitan  baggage 
comes  in,  I  go  out." 

"  Ah,  you  will  enter  the  Church  again,  I 
suppose,"  he  taunted.  "  Have  I  not  said  it 
truly — once  a  priest  always  a  priest  ?  " 

"  You  will  have  the  police  in  the  house," 
was  her  last  word. 


277 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE    FEAST    OF    SPRINGTIDE 

INSTEAD  of  the  arrogant  negative  that  he 
had  returned  to  Bertino's  anxious  inquiry 
day  after  day,  the  postmaster  of  Jamaica 
this  morning  threw  out  a  yellow-enveloped 
letter. 

"  Your  uncle  died  to-day." 

He  did  not  stay  to  read  further,  but 
thrust  the  paper  into  his  pocket,  fearful  that 
some  one  might  be  looking  over  his  shoulder. 
The  blind  terror  of  the  hunted  murderer  was 
full  upon  him.  At  first  he  moved  away 
almost  on  a  run,  but  checked  himself  sud- 
denly to  a  dawdling  swing,  and  put  on  a 
comic  air  of  unconcern.  Not  until  he  was 
far  beyond  the  town,  crossing  the  brushwood 
solitude,  did  he  take  out  the  writing  and  read 
278 


The  Feast  of  Springtide 

Juno's  wily  admonition  :  "  Fly  from  Amer- 
ica.   The  man-hunters  are  after  you  ! " 

With  sharper  stride  he  pressed  on,  un- 
mindful whither  his  course  lay  if  only  he 
widened  the  distance  between  him  and  the 
city.  He  had  walked  to  the  post  office 
twice  a  day  for  a  week,  and  from  habit  now 
he  took  the  wagon  track  that  zigzagged 
toward  the  iron  villa.  The  green  bower 
forming  the  roof  of  that  matchless  dwelling 
rose  to  view  as  he  turned  into  the  road  by 
the  railway  track.  A  few  yards  onward  the 
penetrating  whistle  of  a  quail  startled  him, 
and  a  flash  of  his  affrighted  fancy  revealed 
police  rising  from  ambush  on  every  side  and 
closing  in.  For  the  first  time  since  leaving 
the  town  he  turned  about,  and  beheld  what 
he  had  not  dared  look  behind  for  dread  of 
seeing — men  coming  after  him.  There  were 
six  or  seven  of  them,  all  in  a  group,  and 
gliding  along  so  strangely.  Gran  Dio  !  his 
wife's  warning  had  come  too  late.  Why 
had  she  waited  until  the  hounds  were  fairly 
sniffing  at  his  heels  ?  What  giants  his  pur- 
279 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

suers  were  !  He  could  see  their  heads  and 
shoulders  above  the  quivering  foliage.  Now 
the  ears  of  two  horses  showed,  and  the  rum- 
ble of  wheels  reached  him.  Ah!  thus  it 
was  these  men  could  glide  after  him  with- 
out moving  their  bodies.  Courage  !  Maybe 
they  were  not  man-hunters  at  all.  He  would 
see  if  they  kept  on  in  his  track,  or  turned 
the  opposite  way  at  the  corner.  Yes ;  they 
had  struck  into  the  road  by  the  railway 
and  were  galloping  after  him.  Idiot  that  he 
was  to  stand  so  long  !  But  he  would  elude 
them.  He  knew  the  trails  and  secret  hol- 
lows in  the  bush  that  would  cover  his  flight 
and  shelter  him  until  they  should  give  up 
the  search.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to 
run  !  Now  they  must  know  he  was  the 
murderer !  On  he  sped  past  the  iron  villa, 
not  even  glancing  to  see  if  Bridget  and  the 
children  were  there.  He  reached  the  point 
on  the  edge  of  the  thicket  where  he  intended 
to  plunge  into  its  shielding  labyrinth,  but  a 
look  behind  told  him  that  this  was  needless, 
for  the  two-horse  truck  had  come  to  a  halt 
280 


The  Feast  of  Springtide 

at  the  villa,  and  the  men  were  moving  about 
the  pipes,  some  kneeling  and  looking  in. 
The  wind  bore  to  him  their  shouts  of  laugh- 
ter and  inarticulate  talk.  Screened  by  the 
dwarf  oaks  he  crept  nearer,  until  the  confu- 
sion of  human  voices  became  the  dialect  of 
Sicily. 

That  the  men  were  all  Italians  did  not 
drive  away  his  fear  of  them.  His  racial  faith 
in  the  sanctity  of  the  vendetta  was  not  blind 
enough  to  make  the  Genovese  trust  himself 
to  the  Sicilian},  although  the  knowledge  that 
they  were  no  emissaries  of  the  Questura  of 
Police  was  somewhat  of  relief. 

The  gang  stripped  both  pipes  of  their 
green  mantle,  and  tore  out  the  bedding  and 
soap-box  furniture  of  the  dormitory  tube. 
Full  of  wonder,  Bertino  looked  on.  He 
did  not  know  that  the  letters  "  D.  P.  W." 
painted  boldly  on  the  truck  stood  for  De- 
partment of  Public  Works,  and  that  New 
York  was  merely  gathering  up  its  half-for- 
gotten property.  In  his  wrath  at  this  dese- 
cration of  the  Tomato  domicile  he  would 
19  281 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

have  sprung  from  his  concealment  and  pro- 
tested, but  the  thought  that  he  was  a  mur- 
derer held  him  back.  He  lurked  at  such 
close  range  now  that  he  recognised  two  of 
the  men  as  residents  of  Mulberry.  One, 
the  foreman  of  the  gang,  he  knew  for  a 
distinguished  political  captain  of  a  Sicilian 
election  district,  and  a  prominent  figure  in 
the  social  life  of  that  quarter.  So  Bertino 
dared  not  show  himself  even  when  they 
dragged  forth  the  box  containing  the  Last 
Lady. 

"  Beautiful ! "  said  the  foreman. 

"  Beautiful ! "  was  the  united  echo. 

"  Listen,  Andrea,"  the  foreman  went  on, 
addressing  the  other  man  whom  Bertino 
knew,  "  I  find  this  thing  on  the  city's  prop- 
erty, and  I  shall  keep  it.  To  Mulberry  you 
will  carry  it,  my  friend,  for  I  have  a  famous 
idea  for  the  Feast  of  Springtide." 

With  block  and  tackle  and  much  hauling 

of    ropes    and    singing    of    hee-hoo !    they 

loaded   the   pipe   on    the  truck.     Then  the 

foreman  and  Andrea  lifted  on  the  bust,  and 

282 


The  Feast  of  Springtide 

before  Bertino's  eyes  the  Last  Lady  was  ab- 
ducted. 

He  did  not  rise  from  his  covert  until  the 
truck,  its  big  horses  straining  at  the  traces 
and  the  wheels  glucking  under  their  heavy 
burden,  had  gone  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  Then 
he  started  after  it,  keeping  a  safe  distance 
between  himself  and  the  men  who  might 
recognise  him  at  closer  range.  Only  a 
vague  sense  had  he  at  first  of  the  purpose 
that  impelled  him  onward  ;  he  could  not  bear 
to  see  his  friend's  precious  work  of  months, 
upon  which  he  had  built  his  very  life  hope, 
thus  carried  away  without  doing  something, 
and  that  something,  whatever  it  pleased  Fate 
to  provide,  could  not  be  done  unless  he  kept 
the  bust  in  sight.  Later  the  clearer  design 
came  to  him  of  following  the  Last  Lady  to 
her  destination,  and  letting  the  banker  know, 
so  that  he  might  go  forward  and  reclaim  her 
from  the  abductors. 

Over  dusty  roads  of  the  burning  plains, 
through  woodland  passes,  in  village  streets, 
and  on  the  crazy  pavements  of  Long  Island 
283 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

City  he  kept  in  her  wake.  With  a  feeling 
of  relief  he  saw  the  truck  drive  into  a  gate- 
way, and  while  he  waited  to  make  sure  that 
she  was  to  lodge  there  for  the  night  Andrea 
came  out  with  a  push-cart,  and  on  it  the  well- 
known  pine  box.  Again  he  took  up  the 
pursuit,  which  led  this  time  to  the  ferry 
and  across  to  New  York.  For  a  moment  he 
shrank  from  trailing  on  through  the  city, 
which  his  fancy  filled  with  man-hunters  peer- 
ing into  every  face  to  find  the  murderer  of 
Signor  Di  Bello.  But  an  impulse  of  fidelity 
to  Armando  conquered  his  fears,  and,  turn- 
ing up  his  coat  collar  and  drawing  his  soft 
hat  over  his  eyes,  he  went  on,  dogging  the 
push-cart  in  all  its  fits  and  starts  through  the 
lighted  highways  that  he  was  sure  teemed 
with  detectives. 

At  Bleecker  Street  and  the  Bowery  An- 
drea turned,  and  with  a  sinking  of  courage 
Bertino  guessed  that  the  Last  Lady  was 
bound  for  the  very  heart  of  Mulberry.  Here 
every  man  and  woman  would  know  him  for 
a  murderer,  and  not  a  doorway  or  alley  that 
284 


The  Feast  of  Springtide 

would  not  have  a  law-hound  in  its  shadow ! 
But  it  was  too  late  to  falter.  If  the  bust 
were  lost  now  he  could  never  again  look 
Armando  in  the  face.  Bah  !  he  knew  a  trick 
that  would  fool  the  police.  He  tied  his 
gingham  handkerchief  over  his  mouth  and 
struck  forth,  wholly  confident  that  his  dis- 
guise was  impenetrable. 

Another  turn  into  Elizabeth  Street,  where 
the  tribes  of  Sicily  forgather,  and  Bertino 
found  himself  amid  the  boisterous  throng 
in  the  flare  of  light  and  colour  that  of  ages 
belong  to  the  Feast  of  Springtide.  The 
New  World  memory  of  the  Sicilians'  agri- 
cultural festival  was  in  the  last  of  its  three 
days  and  nights  of  fantastic  gaiety.  All  the 
colony  was  out  of  doors.  On  both  sides  of 
the  way  the  house  fronts  were  lost  in  a  jun- 
gle of  American  and  Italian  flags.  In  droop- 
ing garlands  that  reached  from  window  to 
window  across  the  street,  dim-burning  lights 
in  red  and  purple  glasses  gave  the  barbaric 
scene  a  strange,  sombre  note.  Men  as  dark 
as  Parsees,  and  their  women  decked  with 
285 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

paper  flowers,  and  little  girls  in  white  frocks 
crowned  with  real  and  make-believe  blos- 
soms, stood  about,  each  bearing  a  lighted 
candle,  waiting  eagerly  to  march  in  the  pro- 
cession that  would  go  singing  through  Mul- 
berry. Here  and  there,  apart  from  the  gab- 
bling collection,  was  the  face  of  a  silent,  pen- 
sive one  who  looked  on  at  the  doings  of 
these  wage  slaves  of  the  sweat-shop,  building 
scaffold,  river  tunnel.  Did  he  see  a  thorn 
on  the  rose  of  their  festivity — a  plaintive 
satire  of  Fate  in  this  clinging  to  the  poetic 
shadows  of  their  native  vineyard  and  field 
after  the  substance  had  been  despised  and 
forsaken  ? 

The  foreman  had  come  to  town  by  rail, 
swelling  with  the  political  significance  of  his 
find  in  the  pipe.  First  he  sounded  a  few 
comrades  in  the  wine-shop,  and  their  approv- 
ing "bravoes"  told  him  that  his  idea  for  a 
queen  of  the  feast  would  hit  the  bull's-eye  of 
public  opinion.  Then  with  inflated  chest  he 
proclaimed  that  he,  the  leader  of  the  election 
district,  had  not  only  an  idea  but  its  marble 
286 


The  Feast  of  Springtide 

embodiment  as  well.  Yes,  a  beautiful  bust, 
the  masterpiece  of  a  renowned  sculptor,  who 
had  been  induced,  at  vast  expense  to  him, 
the  leader  of  the  election  district,  to  do  this 
high  honour  to  the  brave  Sicilian  voters. 
From  tongue  to  tongue  the  news  flew,  and 
when  Andrea  appeared  with  his  push-cart 
the  expectant  people,  to  whom  symbolism 
were  ever  precious,  shouted  a  delighted  wel- 
come all  along  the  line. 

"  Long  live  the  Queen  of  Springtide  !  " 
By  the  time  the  procession  was  ready  to 
start,  the  Last  Lady  had  been  lifted  out  and 
set  upon  a  flower-strewn  throne  made  of  a 
large  packing-case  that  rested  on  the  push- 
cart. Then  a  crown  of  tinsel,  typing  the 
sovereign  power  of  the  season  over  bread 
and  wine,  was  lowered  from  the  wire  where- 
on it  had  hung  above  the  middle  of  the 
street — somewhat  oversized  for  the  brow  of 
her  stony  majesty,  but  held  in  place  by  a  pad- 
ding of  paper  roses.  The  brass  band  blared, 
and  the  pageant  advanced,  to  the  cock-a- 
hoop  strain  of  Italy's  national  quickstep. 
287 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Bertino  had  looked  on  silently  during  the 
metamorphosis  of  the  bust,  and  when  the 
long  column  of  candle-bearers  moved  he 
kept  abreast  of  the  head.  At  length  they 
wheeled  into  Mulberry  Street  and  passed  by 
Casa  Di  Bello.  He  had  expected  to  see  his 
uncle's  home  in  darkness  and  crape  on  the 
door.  But  the  windows  showed  light,  and, 
standing  on  the  stoop  to  see  the  procession, 
like  all  the  populace  of  Mulberry,  were 
Aunt  Carolina  and — he  pushed  the  hat  from 
his  brow  at  the  risk  of  liberty  and  life,  to 
make  sure  that  his  eyes  did  not  beguile  him 
— yes,  Marianna  and  Armando  !  All  in 
America !  What  did  it  mean  ?  Surely  this 
was  no  house  of  mourning.  And  these  jeers 
of  the  paraders,  who  jerked  their  thumbs  at 
Casa  Di  Bello : 

"  A  bridegroom  without  a  bride  ! " 

"  Ha !  Signer  Di  Bello  must  hunt  an- 
other wife  ! " 

"  He'd  better  ask  her  first  if  she  has  a 
husband  ! " 

"The  stable  of  the  Genovese  donkey  !" 
288 


The  Feast  of  Springtide 

No,  no ;  even  these  Sicilian  pigs  could 
not  be  making  game  of  a  dead  man.  Pulling 
the  handkerchief  from  his  mouth,  he  dashed 
across  the  street,  breaking  through  the  ranks 
and  exploding  a  volley  of  hisses  and  wrathful 
epithets  from  marchers  and  bystanders. 

"  Aunt  Carolina !  Marianna !  Armando ! " 

"Bertino!" 

They  all  tried  to  hug  and  kiss  him  at 
once. 

"Are  you  Juno's  husband?"  were  the 
first  coherent  words. 

"  Yes  ;  miserable  that  I  am  ! " 

"  Bravo  ! "  exulted  Carolina.  "  The  Na- 
politana  shall  not  enter." 

"  And  my  uncle  ?     He  lives  ?  " 

"  Lives  !  By  the  mass  !  He  is  too  much 
alive." 

"  Grazie  a  Dio  !  I  thought  I  had  killed 
him.  She  told  me  he  was  dead  ;  to  fly,  that 
the  police  were  after  me."  The  others  did 
not  understand  just  then. 

"  And  the  bust  ? "  breathed  Armando. 

"  It  is  here." 

289 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

The  band  had  relapsed  into  silence,  and 
the  air  was  rilled  with  the  drone  of  a  weird 
island  chant  that  lacked  only  the  tom-tom  to 
perfect  its  Hindu  cadence.  The  lips  of  the 
marchers  scarcely  moved  as  they  gave  forth 
their  hymn  of  praise  to  the  Genius  of  Spring. 
And  there  was  the  Queen,  wabbling  along 
in  her  push-cart  chariot,  the  idol  of  Mul- 
berry's rabble — the  "  Presidentessa  "  whom 
her  creator  had  dreamed — oh,  so  trustfully  ! 
—to  see  enthroned  upon  a  porphyry  pedestal 
in  the  White  House,  admired  of  the  rich  and 
great.  Armando  would  have  dived  into  the 
cortege,  pushed  aside  the  candle-bearers  who 
guarded  the  Queen,  and  striven  to  reclaim 
his  own,  but  the  grip  of  Carolina's  hands  on 
his  arm  held  him  back.  She  had  guessed 
his  death-courting  purpose.  A  picture  of 
knife-blades  gleaming  in  the  candlelight 
flashed  in  her  mind,  and  she  put  all  her 
strength  in  her  grasp. 

"  Let  go  ! "  he  cried,  tugging  hard,  but 
Bertino  clutched  his  other  arm  at  the  com- 
mand of  Carolina.  "  Magnificent  God  ! 
290 


The  Feast  of  Springtide 

Am  I  to  stand  here  and  see  them  carry  it 
away  ? " 

"  Fool ! "  said  Carolina.  "  Do  you  think 
they  will  let  you  take  their  Queen  ?  A  hun- 
dred knives  would  stop  you." 

He  ceased  struggling.  "  But  what  shall 
I  do?" 

"  Patience  !  Here,  Bertino  ;  follow  on, 
learn  whither  the  Sicilian  swine  take  the 
bust,  and  when  their  feast  is  over  we  shall 
demand  it." 

Again  Bertino  took  up  the  trail. 


291 


CHAPTER  XXII 

CAROLINA    CONSTRUCTS   A    DRAMA 

A  THUNDERSTORM  routed  the  procession, 
sending  the  candle-bearers  helter-skelter  into 
doorways,  covered  alleys,  under  the  awnings 
of  the  shops.  At  the  first  flash  and  report 
of  the  sky's  artillery  Andrea  deserted  his 
push-cart  and  its  royal  occupant.  But  the 
dauntless  leader  of  the  election  district  was 
at  hand.  With  heroic  calm  he  lifted  the 
Queen  in  his  arms  and  unaided  carried  her 
into  the  Gaffe  of  the  Beautiful  Sicilian. 
Mulberry  had  but  few  men  who  could  do 
that — she  was  of  solid  Carrara — and  thought- 
ful voters  saw  in  the  feat  a  new  mark  of  his 
fitness  for  political  chieftainship.  She  was 
placed  on  a  marble-top  table  in  the  corner 
and  the  crown  straightened  on  her  spotless 
292 


Carolina  Constructs  a  Drama 

brow.  All  night  she  held  court,  and  until 
the  vender  songs  of  the  morning  market 
were  heard  in  the  streets.  Bottle  after  bottle 
joined  the  dead  men,  the  rude  quips  and 
quibbles  grew  noisy,  quarrelsome,  yet  no 
man  drained  a  glass  without  first  tipping  it 
in  homage  to  the  snub-nosed  damsel  whose 
hollow  eyes  stared  at  every  one  all  the  time. 

An  hour  before  midnight  Bertino  and 
Armando  returned  to  Casa  Di  Bello  to  re- 
port to  Carolina  the  lodging  place  of  the 
Last  Lady.  Hardly  had  the  bell  sounded 
when  the  door  flew  open,  and  Carolina  came 
out,  finger  at  lips,  with  a  great  air  of  mys- 
tery, and  drawing  to  the  panelled  oak  be- 
hind her. 

"  Be  off  at  once  ! "  she  said,  her  voice 
fluttering.  "  Here  is  money.  Go  anywhere 
to-night- — anywhere  out  of  Mulberry.  You, 
Bertino,  must  not  come  back  until — until  I 
am  ready  for  you.  If  she  saw  you  it  would 
ruin  all.  Go !  Ask  no  questions.  To- 
morrow Armando  will  tell  me  where  you 
are,  and  we  shall  meet.  Away  ! " 
293 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

With  puzzled  faces  and  mystified  shakes 
of  the  head  Armando  and  Bertino  took 
themselves  off,  and  Carolina  re-entered  at 
the  moment  that  Signor  Di  Bello  was  mount- 
ing the  staircase  to  his  bedroom.  A  few 
minutes  before  he  had  taunted  her  with  the 
failure  of  her  scheme  to  cheat  him  of  a 
wife,  and  proclaimed  again  the  idiocy  of  the 
priest  and  all  others  who  asserted  that  there 
was  a  bust  or  a  husband  of  Juno.  A  pretty 
show  they  had  made  of  him.  All  Mulberry 
was  laughing.  But  his  time  would  come. 
Next  Sunday  he  would  turn  the  tide,  for 
she  would  be  his  in  spite  of  them  all. 
Carolina  could  do  as  she  liked,  go  or  stay  ; 
but  a  wedding  there  must  and  should  be, 
for  that  alone  could  save  his  good  name  as 
a  merchant  and  a  signore. 

He  had  spent  a  busy  night  with  the 
flasks  of  the  Three  Gardens  along  with  some 
choice  comrades  of  the  Genovese,  and  the 
years  had  told  Carolina  that  with  her  brother 
it  was  always  in  vino  veritas.  Wherefore 
she  knew  that  he  had  spoken  naught  less 
294 


Carolina  Constructs  a  Drama 

than  a  secret  of  his  heart — that  a  wish  to 
wipe  out  the  stain  of  ridicule  was  an  added 
spur  to  his  determination  to  marry.  And 
this  knowledge  sparked  an  idea  that  keyed 
her  cunning  to  its  highest  pitch.  Without 
an  instant's  delay  she  began  to  put  the  idea 
into  practice.  Her  first  move  was  to  keep 
mum  about  the  return  of  Bertino,  although 
she  had  waited  up  to  flaunt  in  her  brother's 
face  the  news  that  his  bride's  husband  would 
stand  before  him  in  a  few  minutes.  But  the 
new  design  that  her  crafty  wits  had  seized 
upon  made  that  petty  triumph  seem  not 
worth  while — at  least  not  until  the  tragic 
moment  she  was  preparing.  Her  next  step, 
as  we  have  seen,  was  to  get  Bertino  out  of 
the  way.  The  corners  of  her  closed  mouth 
curved  in  a  smile  of  wily  content  as  she 
watched  Signor  Di  Bello  going  up  to  his 
room  in  blank  ignorance  of  the  little  society 
drama  that  was  in  her  head. 

"  Good  night,  my  dear  brother,"  she  said. 
"  To-morrow  I  will  begin  to  make  ready  for 
the  wedding." 

295 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  Good  night." 

On  the  morrow  she  gave  Angelica  orders 
to  prepare  a  wedding  feast  that  should  be 
the  equal  of  the  one  that  had  gone  to  Father 
Nicodemo's  poor.  She  ordered  her  as  well 
to  keep  her  mouth  shut  about  the  turning 
up  of  Bertino,  and  the  same  command  she 
issued  to  Marianna.  Neither  the  girl  nor 
the  cook  was  able  to  fathom  the  purpose 
of  Carolina,  but  Marianna  could  not  shake 
off  a  besetting  fear  that  it  boded  no  good 
for  her. 
-  •  t  t  r  t  • 

It  was  a  bright  morning,  and  bright  were 
the  spirits  of  Signor  Di  Bello,  and  springy 
his  step,  as  he  walked  to  his  shop  in  Paradise 
Park.  To  his  view  there  was  not  a  speck  on 
the  matrimonial  prospect,  and  he  exulted  in 
the  promise  of  laughing  last  at  those  who 
were  now  laughing  at  him.  It  was  the  day 
that  the  proofs  were  to  be  presented  to 
Father  Nicodemo,  and  he  chuckled  serene- 
ly over  the  plight  that  the  banker  must 

be  in. 

296 


Carolina  Constructs  a  Drama 

He  had  gone  less  than  a  block  when  Ar- 
mando rang  the  bell  of  Casa  Di  Bello,  and 
Marianna,  who  had  been  watching  for  him 
eagerly  at  the  window,  threw  open  the  door. 
Breathlessly  she  fell  to  telling  him  of  the 
plans  for  the  wedding  and  her  consequent 
sense  of  impending  disaster  ;  how  Carolina 
knew  that  Juno  had  one  husband,  and  was 
helping  her  to  get  another  !  She  had  closed 
her  and  Angelica's  lips.  What  did  it  all 
mean  ?  Something  dreadful,  she  was  sure. 
If  Armando  would  only  take  her  away. 


The  interview  was  cut  off  by  the  voice 
of  Carolina,  who  appeared  with  her  bonnet 
on  and  took  charge  of  Armando. 

"  Not  a  word,"  she  admonished  him, 
"  about  Bertino's  return  or  his  marriage  to 
that  baggage.  Mind  you  do  not  tell  a  liv- 
ing soul.  My  reasons  you  will  know  at  the 
proper  time.  Now,  lead  me  to  the  —  Last 
Lady." 

Together  they  walked  to  the  Gaffe  of  the 
Beautiful  Sicilian.  On  the  threshold  they 

20  297 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

came  face  to  face  with  the  ex-banker.  He 
was  in  a  fine  frenzy  of  indignation.  At  day- 
break that  morning  he  had  started  from 
what  was  left  of  the  iron  villa  with  a  push- 
cart load  of  dandelion  leaves.  After  visit- 
ing the  rectory  and  making  to  Father  Nico- 
demo  the  humiliating  report  that  the  proofs 
had  vanished,  there  had  come  to  his  ear 
news  of  the  marble  Queen  of  Springtide, 
and  the  talk,  current  on  a  thousand  tongues, 
of  her  strong  resemblance  to  the  Neapolitan 
who  sang  at  La  Scala,  and  whom  the  priest 
had  refused  to  marry  to  Signor  Di  Bello. 
And  here  was  the  bust  of  which  he  had 
been  robbed.  Oh,  the  money  it  had  cost 
him  !  One  hundred  and  forty  dollars  for 
duty.  Ah !  yes ;  it  was  the  cause  of  his 
ruin.  But  for  that  cursed  marble  he  would 
be  still  a  signore  and  one  of  the  influential 
bankers  of  Mulberry.  He  had  demanded 
his  property,  but  the  foreman  would  not 
surrender  it  until  he  had  proved  his  owner- 
ship. What  an  outrage  !  But  it  mattered 
not  now,  for  they,  Armando  and  Signorina 
298 


Carolina  Constructs  a  Drama 

Di  Bello,  would  be  his  witnesses.  "Who 
well  does  climb  is  helped  in  time." 

"  Excuse  me,  signore,"  remarked  Ar- 
mando ;  "  this  bust  does  not  belong  to  you." 

"  What ! "  shrieked  the  banker. 

"  No  ;  it  is  mine." 

"Yours?" 

"  I  made  it." 

"  You  made  it,  eh  ?"  the  banker  snapped. 
"  Very  good.  But  who  paid  for  it  ?  Eh, 
who  paid  for  it  ?  Answer  that.  Who  paid 
the  one  hundred  and  forty  dollars  of  Dogana 
— you  or  I  ?  Give  me  back  the  duty  money 
and  you  may  have  the  infernal  thing !  Ugly 
yellow  snout ! " 

Now,  Carolina  had  a  lively  desire  to  pos- 
sess the  bust,  for  she  needed  it  in  the  aveng- 
ing play  that  she  had  begun  to  construct. 
Nevertheless,  her  Italian  thrift  had  not  been 
swamped  by  the  wave  of  worldly  purpose 
that  had  of  late  come  over  her  churchly 
qualities.  To  pay  the  sum  Signor  Tomato 
asked  would  necessitate  an  inroad  upon  her 
savings-bank  hoard,  an  act  to  which  she 
299 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

nerved  herself  only  in  the  last  resort.  So 
she  exerted  the  might  of  her  tongue  in  be- 
half of  Armando's  claim,  holding  with  pri- 
mordial logic  that  the  Last  Lady  belonged 
to  the  sculptor  by  divine  right  of  creation. 
But  the  foreman,  in  his  role  of  thief,  custo- 
dian of  the  stolen  goods,  and  judge  in  equity, 
had  a  homelier  code  of  ethics  for  his  guide. 
It  took  him  not  a  moment  to  decide.  He 
awarded  the  bust  to  the  banker  on  the 
ground  that  it  was  in  his  wife's  possession  at 
the  time  of  the  theft,  and  must  therefore  be- 
long to  her  husband.  It  was  only  the  reduc- 
tio  ad  maritiim  to  which  all  questions  are 
subject  in  Mulberry.  The  upshot  was  that 
in  the  afternoon  Carolina  paid  the  one  hun- 
dred and  forty  dollars. 

To  Signer  Tomato  it  seemed  as  if  some 
fairy  wand  had  touched  the  world  and  made 
it  a  garden  of  joy.  Now  they  might  take 
away  the  other  pipe  any  time,  and  he  did  not 
care.  His  Bridget  and  the  little  Tomatoes 
would  not  be  homeless.  In  his  transport 
of  gladness  the  rude  life  about  him  took  on 
300 


Carolina  Constructs  a  Drama 

a  poetic  beauty.  The  fragrance  of  Sorren- 
tine  orange  groves  filled  the  squalid  streets  ; 
there  was  rapturous  music  in  the  shrieks  of 
the  parrots  on  the  fire  escapes  and  window 
sills  ;  the  raucous  notes  of  the  hucksters  en- 
chanted his  ear.  To  dear  old  Mulberry  he 
could  return  now  and  resume  his  proper 
estate  of  banker  and  signore.  Long  live  the 
day  in  his  thankfulness  !  Never  more  would 
he  quarrel  with  his  lot.  Ah  !  the  grand  truth 
in  the  proverb,  "  Blind  eyes  lose  their  night 
when  gold  is  in  sight."  Straightway  he  went 
to  the  landlord,  got  the  key  of  the  old  shop, 
and,  when  darkness  had  fallen,  Bridget  and 
her  brood  were  eating  cabbage  soup  behind 
the  nankeen  sail  in  the  revivified  Banca  To- 
mato. 

But  the  Last  Lady  was  still  with  them, 
to  the  hearty  disgust  of  Bridget.  Not  yet 
had  the  hour  arrived  for  Carolina  to  bring 
the  bust  on  the  scene,  and  Signer  Tomato, 
with  many  a  word  and  grimace  of  reluctance, 
consented,  under  an  oath  of  secrecy,  to  keep 
it  in  his  place  until  the  supreme  moment. 
301 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Pains  were  taken  that  it  should  not  be  traced 
to  its  new  biding  place.  Armando  had 
pushed  it  away  in  a  cart,  taking  a  round- 
about course  from  the  Gaffe  of  the  Beautiful 
Sicilian  to  Paradise  Park.  Thus  it  happened 
that  when  Signor  Di  Bello,  to  whose  ears 
had  come  the  gossip  of  a  bust  that  imaged 
his  lost  bride,  went  to  the  caffk  that  morn- 
ing to  see  for  himself,  the  bird  had  again 
flown. 

"  Bah  !  Another  stupid  jest ! "  he  mut- 
tered, and  thrashed  out  of  the  room  amid 
the  titters  of  a  group  of  Sicilians. 

Soon  afterward  Juno,  an  unwonted  air 
of  wide-awake  desire  about  her,  entered  the 
cafk  and  asked  to  be  shown  the  Queen  of 
Springtide.  Before  Signora  Crispina,  the 
proprietor's  peachblow  wife,  could  answer, 
there  came  from  a  half  dozen  throats  the 
merry  chorus  : 

"  Long  live  the  Queen  of  Springtide  !" 

"Where  is  it?"  Juno  asked. 

"  She  is  here,  signorina,"  said  the  wit 
of  the  company,  rising  and  tipping  his  hat. 
302 


Carolina  Constructs  a  Drama 

"The  lifeless  Queen  has  just  left  us,  but  her 
living  Majesty  is  here. — It  is  yourself,  beau- 
tiful signorina." 

"  Bah  !     Where  is  the  bust  ?  " 

No  one  could  answer.  Armando  was 
unknown  in  Mulberry,  and  only  three  per- 
sons— Carolina,  the  banker,  and  himself — 
were  in  the  secret  of  his  destination  when 
he  pushed  away  from  the  caffk  with  the  Last 
Lady  in  the  cart.  Juno  went  back  to  her 
lodgings  greatly  disappointed.  A  dread  had 
settled  upon  her  that  this  marble  ghost 
would  spring  up  in  her  path  somehow,  and 
foil  her  plans,  after  the  manner  of  all  well- 
ordered  avenging  spirits.  It  had  been  her 
intention,  when  she  hurried  to  the  caffk  to 
sound  the  rumour  about  the  bust,  to  get 
Signor  Di  Bello  to  buy  it  and  give  it  to  her. 
Once  in  her  hands,  she  would  have  seen  to 
it  that  the  thing  retired  to  a  safe  obscurity. 
The  bottom  of  the  East  River  seemed  to 
her  a  particularly  fit  place  for  Armando's 
masterpiece.  She  doubted  no  longer  that 
the  bust  had  arrived  in  Mulberry,  and  the 
303 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

mystery    of    its   whereabouts   gave    her   no 
peace. 

But  it  was  not  so  with  Signor  Di  Bello. 
To  the  mind  of  the  grocer,  put  upon  so 
hard  by  recent  events,  the  talk  about  the 
Queen's  resemblance  to  his  lost  bride  ap- 
peared now  as  a  hoax  which  had  accom- 
plished its  purpose  of  drawing  him  to  the 
caffe  only  to  be  laughed  at.  If  not,  where 
was  the  bust  ?  Surely  he  knew  his  people 
too  well  to  misinterpret  this  latest  prank. 
He  knew.  It  was  the  first  joke  of  a  prac- 
tical turn  that  any  one  had  dared  play  on 
him  since  the  blunder  at  the  church  marked 
him  for  the  colony's  ridicule.  And  he  saw 
therein  a  sure  omen  that  flat  insult  would 
quickly  succeed  the  coarse  raillery.  Before 
long  women  would  spit  at  him  in  the  street 
and  taunting  youngsters  tag  at  his  heels. 
Others  that  he  knew  of  had  tasted  the 
strange  persecution.  But  it  should  not  be 
his  lot,  by  the  tail  of  Lucifer !  On  the 
Feast  of  Sunday  his  marriage  must  silence 
every  idle  tongue.  For  then  he  would  cease 
304 


Carolina  Constructs  a  Drama 

to  be  that  despised  of  all  creatures,  a  bride- 
groom without  a  bride. 

That  his  lively  taste  for  Juno's  grace  of 
person  had  become  second  to  a  desire  to 
avert  the  rising  gale  of  mockery,  Carolina 
understood  very  well.  And  upon  this  change 
of  his  nuptial  motive  she  rested  full  confi- 
dence of  success  for  her  own  designs.  No 
bar  to  her  project  showed  itself  until  she 
visited  Bertino,  at  the  cheap  hotel  on  the 
East  Side,  whither  he  and  Armando  had 
taken  themselves.  Then  she  found  that  the 
leading  man  of  her  drama  had  notions  of  his 
own  about  his  part  that  would  wreck  the 
plot.  He  was  for  killing  the  feminine  villain 
before  the  curtain  rose.  To  her  directions 
that  he  keep  out  of  sight  until  Sunday  he 
demurred  vehemently.  How  could  he  wait 
so  long  when  the  vendetta  was  boiling  in  his 
veins  ?  His  wife  had  done  him  a  deadly 
wrong,  and,  per  Dio  /  deadly  should  be  the 
accounting. 

"  See  the  grand  trouble  she  has  caused  to 
me,  to  my  friend,  and  to  poor  Marianna  !" 
305 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  To  Marianna  ?  "  she  asked,  in  genuine 
wonder.  "  What  wrong  has  she  done  her?" 

"  Were  not  she  and  Armando  to  wed 
when  his  Presidentessa  should  be  sold  ?  A 
long  time  they  must  wait  now.  Thunder- 
ing heavens  !  But  she  shall 'pay." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  rejoined  Carolina, 
with  a  note  of  authority.  "  It  would  have 
made  no  difference  to  Marianna.  She  was 
not  to  wed  Armando  in  any  case." 

"  I  know  better.  Anyway,  I  shall  not 
sit  here  biting  my  lips  until  the  Feast  of 
Sunday,  and  perhaps  be  cheated  of  my  right. 
Who  knows  when  she  may  fly  ? " 

"  No  fear  of  that." 

"  No  ?  Why  not  ?  I  tell  you  she 
knows  what  to  expect  from  me,  and  is  no 
simpleton."  Then  he  lowered  his  voice  to 
a  stage  whisper,  first  opening  the  door  and 
making  sure  that  there  was  no  listener  in 
the  hall.  "  Twice  I  would  have  killed  her, 
but  once  I  deceived  myself,  and  the  other 
time  she  gammoned  me  with  a  lie  that 
made  me  try  to  kill  my  uncle.  Don't  you 
306 


Carolina  Constructs  a  Drama 

see  that  I  can  not  wait  here  while  she  may 
be  getting  away  ?  " 

"  I  promise  you  she  will  not  leave  Mul- 
berry. Do  you  wish  to  know  why  ?  Well, 
it  is  because  she  thinks  you  have  fled  from 
America  and  that  she  is  free  to  become  your 
uncle's  wife.  Ah !  don't  you  see  the  fine 
vendetta  I  am  hatching  for  you  ?  On  the 
Feast  of  Sunday  you  appear  and  stop  the 
wedding.  The  Neapolitan  beast  is  kicked 
out  of  Casa  Di  Bello.  You  follow  her  and 
— claim-  your  rights.  Is  it  not  a  sweet  ven- 
detta f  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Bertino  after  a  pause.  "  I 
will  wait." 


307 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

A    PARTNERSHIP    IN    TEN-INCH    ST.    PETERS 

THOUGH  Carolina  had  not  been  blind  to 
the  meaning  of  the  signals  flashed  by  Ar- 
mando and  Marianna's  eyes  whenever  the 
lovers  were  together,  Bertino's  words  stirred 
her  to  the  need  of  taking  instant  measures 
to  smother  any  marplot  that  might  brew  from 
their  attachment.  To  this  end  she  resolved 
to  keep  them  apart  until  the  final  act  of  her 
private  theatricals  should  be  played.  Thus 
it  fell  out  that  on  Friday,  two  days  before 
the  time  for  Signor  Di  Bello's  second  essay 
at  a  wedding,  when  Armando  called  to  deliver 
a  most  weighty  message  to  Marianna,  he  was 
met  at  the  door  with  Carolina's  avowal  that 
the  girl  was  indisposed.  He  might  have 
credited  the  dreadful  news  but  for  a  face 
308 


A  Partnership  in  Ten-inch  St.   Peters 

that  he  saw  at  the  window  as  he  walked 
away,  and  a  pair  of  hands  and  lips  that  were 
telegraphing  with  much  energy.  "  Wait, 
and  I  shall  be  out,"  was  the  only  part  of 
Marianna's  excited  display  that  he  under- 
stood. But  it  was  enough  to  insure  his 
waiting  a  week,  had  that  been  necessary. 
As  it  was,  she  did  not  come  until  darkness 
had  called  lights  to  the  cafft  windows  and 
the  banks  and  grocery  shops  had  put  up  their 
shutters. 

"  It  is  finished  now,"  she  said,  hatless  and 
breathing  hard.  "  I  can  never  go  back  to 
Casa  Di  Bello." 

"What  matter?"  he  asked,  taking  her 
hand,  and  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  day 
showing  a  joy  and  contempt  for  circum- 
stance that  befitted  his  years.  "  Come  along. 
I  have  beautiful  news.  Let  us  go  to  the 
gardens  of  Paradise." 

It  was  the  first  music  night  of  the  season, 

and  the  Park  had  become  a  vast  potbouilli 

of  Italy's  children,  with  a  salting  from  the 

Baxter   Street   Ghetto  and  a  peppering  of 

309 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"Chimmies"  and  "  Mamies "  from  the  old 
Fourth  Ward.  Armando  and  Marianna 
made  their  way  through  the  seething  mass 
about  the  band,  deaf  to  the  rag-time  melody 
that  filled  the  sultry  air  and  without  eyes 
for  the  gorgeous  red  coats  of  the  musicians. 
He  was  telling  her  how  from  the  blackness 
of  his  despair  the  light  of  knowledge  had 
suddenly  broken,  and  how  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  exile  he  had  found  the  sweet  of  con- 
tent. Far  from  the  band  stand,  they  crowd- 
ed on  to  a  bench  beside  two  women  with 
yellow  babies  at  their  breasts,  and  Armando 
continued : 

"  It  was  last  night,  and  I  was  here  alone, 
with  only  the  stars  for  companions.  All 
Mulberry  was  asleep.  First  I  thought  only 
of  myself,  and  my  heart  was  heavy.  Then 
the  points  of  gold  in  the  sky  seemed  to 
whisper — to  whisper  of  you,  my  precious. 
After  that  I  was  happy.  Do  you  know  why  ? 
Ah,  it  was  because  I  had  made  up  my  mind." 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated  eagerly  ;  "you  made 
up  your  mind  to— 

310 


A  Partnership  in  Ten-inch  St.   Peters 

"  Go  home." 

"And  I?" 

"  You  go  with  me.  There  ;  do  you  not 
see  now  why  I  am  happy  ? " 

"  Madonna-Maria  be  glorified  ! "  she  cried, 
and  the  women  by  their  side  exchanged 
glances  and  grunts.  "  When  ?  " 

"  By  the  first  ship  for  Genoa." 

"When  is  that?" 

"  Some  day  next  week." 

" Joy  ! " 

"  Ah  !  is  it  not  fine  ?  To  go  back  to 
Italy  ! " 

"  Si  ;  fine."  She  paused  a  moment  pen- 
sively, then  asked,  "  Have  you  bought  the 
passage  tickets  ?  " 

"  No  ;  she  has  not  paid  me  yet  for  the 
bust." 

"  Who  has  not  paid  you  ?" 

"  Signorina  Di  Bello." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  will  give  you 
any  money  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  I  saw  it  in  her  eye.  And  did  she 
not  say,  when  I  spoke  of  my  poor  marble — 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

did  she  not  say  that  perhaps  it  would  not 
prove  so  poor,  after  all  ?  Oh,  she  will  pay,  I 
am  sure.  How  much  ?  Ah  !  who  can  tell 
that  ?  But  surely  it  will  be  enough  to  take 
us  back  to  Cardinali,  and  what  more  can  we 
ask  ?  There  we  shall  be  happy.  No  more 
shall  you  go  to  the  mill,  for  have  I  not  my 
house  and  workshop,  and  will  not  Genoa  be 
glad  again  to  buy  my  ten-inch  Saint  Peters?" 

"  Ah  !  si.  Genoa  will  be  glad.  And  I  ? 
Shall  I  not  take  them  to  the  Gallery  of 
Cristoforo  Colombo  and  sell  them  just  as 
old  Daniello  did  ?  By  my  faith,  I  think  I 
shall  bring  home  as  much  silver  as  ever  he 
did,  and  more." 

"Si,  si;  who  would  not  buy  of  you, 
angelo  d'amore  f  " 

He  kissed  her  lips  and  fair  tresses,  and 
the  women  with  their  nurslings  left  the 
bench.  Thus,  and  for  hours,  the  exiles  lived 
in  the  new-found  bliss  of  their  present  while 
planning  a  joyous  future.  Over  the  buzz  of 
the  grimy,  toil-bound  multitude  the  notes  of 
the  distant  band  came  to  them  vaguely— 
312 


A  Partnership  in  Ten-inch  St.   Peters 

now  in  a  fugitive  creak,  then  in  a  faint  rum- 
ble or  detached  crash. 

It  was  long  after  the  music  had  died  out, 
and  the  people  had  gone  to  their  tenements, 
and  the  pale  eye  of  night  had  peeped  tardily 
over  a  zigzag  line  of  low  roofs,  when  Mari- 
anna  said  : 

"  Dio  /  So  late  !  She  will  not  let  me 
in." 

They  walked  to  Casa  Di  Bello  at  a  smart 
pace,  and  timidly  she  rang  the  bell,  while 
Armando  waited  not  many  yards  away.  In- 
stantly the  door  opened,  and  he  saw  the 
hand  of  Carolina  reach  forth,  grasp  his  love 
by  the  shoulder,  and  jerk  her  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

TWO    TROUBLESOME    WEDDING    GIFTS 

LOOKING  down  upon  Genoa  through  the 
blue  reaches  of  the  upper  crests  is  an  Apen- 
nine  peak  which  the  people,  high  and  low, 
call  Our  Lady  of  the  Windows.  Ever 
mantled  in  snow,  and  a  fit  emblem  of  icy 
virtue,  she  has  for  ages  inspired  a  negative 
chord  for  that  region's  lyres  of  passion.  The 
princeling  in  his  hillside  palazzo  sings  of  his 
dream  lady — always  an  angel  as  fervid  as  the 
glacial  Madonna  is  cold  ;  the  red  waterman, 
in  his  moonlight  barcarole,  swears 'his  love 
would  melt  that  frozen  heart.  But  she  bears 
no  kinship  to  this  chronicle  save  that  Signer 
Di  Bello,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  pregnant 
Feast  of  Sunday,  when  all  was  primed  for 
3H 


Two  Troublesome  Wedding  Gifts 

the  wedding,  thus  addressed  his  sister,  who 
sat  by  a  front  casement : 

"  Ha  !  my  Lady  of  the  Windows,  it  is 
time  to  go  and  fetch  my  bride." 

Carolina  gave  back  only  a  silent  nod  and 
a  closer  pressure  of  the  lips,  and  he  made  off 
to  the  Santa  Lucia,  crowing  to  himself  over 
the  timely  bite  of  his  pleasantry.  Hour 
after  hour  she  had  been  at  that  window 
watching  for  Bertino,  ready  to  spring  to  the 
door  and  drive  him  away  should  he  appear 
too  soon.  She  was  determined  that  the 
play  should  not  be  spoiled  by  the  untimely 
entrance  of  her  star  actor.  His  cue,  as 
agreed  upon,  was  the  exit  of  Signor  Di 
Bello,  but  the  fear  had  haunted  her  that  his 
itching  vendetta  might  make  him  forget  the 
book.  That  danger  was  past  now,  and  be- 
fore his  uncle  had  gone  a  block,  Bertino  was 
at  the  door.  She  bundled  him  upstairs  to 
her  sanctum,  and,  turning  the  key,  left  him 
looking  out  blankly  on  the  graveyard.  "  In 
a  little  while  I  shall  call  you,"  she  said,  after 
explaining  gravely  that  she  locked  him  in 
3*5 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

that  his  uncle  might  be  kept  out.  Then  she 
descended  to  the  street  door  and  waved  her 
hand,  a  signal  that  brought  a  push-cart  out 
of  a  near-by  alley,  with  Armando  and  the 
banker  at  its  shafts.  Of  course,  their  load 
was  the  Last  Lady,  but  no  eye  could  see  her 
face,  for  Bridget  had  given  her  best  and  only 
bed  coverlet  to  veil  it.  No  easy  task  to  lug 
the  weighty  dame  upstairs,  but  they  managed 
it  without  mischance,  while  Carolina  stood 
by  imploring  care,  and  all  with  an  ado  of 
deepest  secrecy.  At  length  the  bust  \vas  set 
up  in  the  back  room  of  the  second  floor.  In 
this  room  the  bride  and  groom  were  to  wait 
before  going  down  to  the  parlour  for  the 
ceremony.  A  dressing  case  near  the  window 
answered  for  a  pedestal.  In  the  bright  light 
that  fell  upon  it  the  snowy  features  of  Juno 
showed  bold  to  the  eye,  while  the  mirror 
rendered  back  in  softer  tone  her  sturdy  neck 
and  shoulders.  With  a  spotless  sheet  Caro- 
lina covered  the  bust,  and  with  the  others 
left  the  room  and  locked  the  door. 

Repeated  jangling  of  the  bell  and  a  low 
316 


Two  Troublesome  Wedding  Gifts 

drone  in  the  parlour  told  of  arriving  guests. 
Marianna  had  been  cast  for  the  part  .of  door- 
opener  and  welcomer  to  the  first  families. 
Armando,  in  the  best  attire  he  could  muster, 
had  only  a  meditative  role.  Thus  far  he 
had  done  naught  but  sit  in  the  parlour  and 
exchange  confident  glances  with  Marianna 
whenever  she  ushered  in  a  distinguished  Ca- 
labriano,  Siciliano,  or  Napolitano. 

A  cab  bearing  Signor  Di  Bello  and  Juno 
drew  up  betimes,  and  word  was  passed  to 
Carolina.  Instantly  she  unlocked  the  door 
that  shut  in  Bertino,  and  bade  him  be  ready 
for  her  summons.  Then  she  called  Mari- 
anna and  Armando  to  the  room  where  the 
bust  was,  leaving  Angelica  to  let  in  the 
bridal  pair.  Up  the  staircase  they  rustled, 
Juno  first,  her  skirts  held  free  of  the  yel- 
low boots,  and  Signor  Di  Bello  smiling 
after  her  with  a  quivering  bunch  of  muslin 
roses. 

"  They  are  here,"  said  the  guests,  craning 
their  necks  and  whispering.  "  No  fiasco  this 
time." 

317 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"This  way,  signorina,"  piped  Carolina, 
with  a  spidery  smile,  stepping  aside  and 
waving  her  fly  into  the  web. 

They  entered  the  room  prepared  for 
them,  and  Signer  Di  Bello  regarded  in  won- 
der the  white  shape  on  the  dressing  case. 
"  Soul  of  a  camel ! "  he  cried.  "  What  is 
that?" 

"A  little  surprise  that  we  have  for  the 
bride,"  answered  Carolina,  advancing  and 
raising  the  window  shade.  "  A  wedding  pres- 
ent, in  fact.  Eccolo  /  " 

She  drew  off  the  veil  quickly,  and  the 
Last  Lady  stood  revealed  in  the  streaming 
sunlight. 

"  By  the  Egg  of  Columbus  ! " 

Every  eye  turned  from  the  marble  Juno 
to  the  Juno  of  flesh  and  blood.  She  had  let 
fall  the  counterfeit  blossoms  that  the  signore 
had  just  placed  in  her  hand,  but  gave  no 
other  token  of  disquiet.  A  glow  of  admira- 
tion lit  up  her  face  as  she  gazed  steadily  at 
her  double  in  stone. 

"  It  is  really  beautiful,"  she  said  calmly, 


Two  Troublesome  Wedding  Gifts 

moving  nearer.  "  I  knew  I  should  look  well 
in  marble." 

She  passed  one  hand  behind  the  bust  as 
though  to  judge  it  by  the  sense  of  touch, 
but  before  any  one  could  hinder  she  lifted  it 
to  the  window  sill  and  sent  it  somersault- 
ing into  the  rear  court.  The  crash  brought 
a  score  of  heads  to  the  lower  windows,  and 
the  guests  set  up  a  cry  that  disaster  had 
again  visited  the  wedding  of  Signer  Di 
Bello. 

"  Infame  !  in  fame  I"  chorused  Carolina, 
Armando,  and  Marianna  when  they  looked 
out  and  beheld  the  Last  Lady  in  a  dozen 
pieces  on  the  flagstones,  while  the  bride- 
groom merely  laughed,  for  it  seemed  to  him 
a  capital  joke. 

Juno  was  quick  to  follow  her  prompt 
action  with  suitable  words.  "  You  dogs  of 
Genovese  ! "  she  said,  sweeping  the  company 
with  her  flashing  eyes.  "  Do  you  like  the 
bust  now  ?  Did  you  think  1  would  stand 
still  and  be  made  a  fool  of,  or  that  I  would 
fall  down  and  weep  ? "  Then,  turning  to 
319 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

Carolina,  "And  you,  Signorina  Old  Maid, 
you  are  a  large  piece  of  stupidity." 

"  Ha  !  You  do  not  like  my  present ! " 
said  Carolina,  ready  for  the  combat.  "That 
is  a  grand  pity.  But,  mark  you,  on  her  wed- 
ding day  a  married  maid  must  be  suited  to 
her  heart's  full  desire.  I  will  give  you  an- 
other present — yes,  a  present  that  every 
married  maid  must  have.  Do  you  guess  ? 
No  ?  How  strange  !  "  She  went  into  the 
hall  and  called,  "Bertino!"  Instantly  he 
darted  in  and  stood  panting  before  his  wife. 
"  Here  is  the  other  present,  my  married 
maid — your  husband  ! " 

At  the  same  moment  there  arose  from 
the  parlour  a  tumult  of  voices,  and  An- 
gelica entered  and  said  that  the  priest  had 
arrived. 

"Are  you  her  husband  ?"  groaned  Signer 
Di  Bello,  his  hope  all  gone. 

"  Yes,"     Bertino    answered,    glaring    at 

Juno.     "  She    is  my  wife,   the  viper !     She 

put  me  up  to  stabbing  you,  my  uncle.     She 

told  me  you  annoyed  her ;  that  she  did  not 

320 


Two  Troublesome  Wedding  Gifts 

want  you.  But  she  shall  pay  ! "  he  cried, 
waving  his  hand  above  his  head.  "  Do  you 
hear,  you  Neapolitan  thief  ?  You  shall  pay. 
After  that  to  inferno  with  you,  and  may 
you  remain  there  as  long  as  it  takes  a  crab 
to  go  round  the  world  !  Figlia  of  a  priest ! 
Wolf  of " 

"  Stop  ! "  broke  in  Signer  Di  Bello.  Go- 
ing up  to  Juno,  he  asked  mournfully,  "  Is 
he  your  husband  ?  " 

She  answered,  tossing  her  head :  "  He 
says  so.  Let  him  prove  it." 

Signor  Di  Bello  grasped  the  other  end  of 
the  straw.  "  Ah,  yes  ;  prove  it,"  he  roared, 
while  Carolina  smiled  snugly,  for  she  had 
looked  to  it  that  the  properties  for  this 
scene  were  not  lacking. 

"You  want  proof?"  asked  Bertino. 
"  Well,  it  is  here."  He  drew  a  marriage  cer- 
tificate from  his  pocket. 

Signor    Di    Bello   seized   the   document 

and    cast    his    eye    over    it.      The    disorder 

below  had   redoubled,  and   with   the  noisy 

demands    for   the    bride    and   groom    were 

321 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

mingled  derisive  shouts  of  "  Long  live  the 
Genovese  bachelor  !  "  and  "  Another  fiasco  !  " 

"  Soul  of  the  moon  !  It  is  true  ! " 
breathed  Di  Bello,  crunching  the  paper  in 
style  theatrical. 

"  Bah  ! "  returned  Juno,  moving  near  to 
him  and  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
"  You  believe  that  ?  " 

"  Believe  me,-  then,  signori,"  spoke  up  a 
strange  voice,  in  grammatical  but  English- 
bred  Italian.  It  was  the  priest  from  over 
the  border  of  Mulberry,  who  had  come  up- 
stairs to  learn  the  reason  of  the  delay  and 
heard  the  last  few  lines  of  the  dialogue — the 
priest  whom  Signor  Di  Bello  had  engaged 
because  he  would  not  meddle.  Turning  to 
Juno  he  continued :  "  I  had  the  honour, 
signora,  of  marrying  you  to  this  man." 

"Padre!"  exclaimed  Bertino,  who  knew 
him  at  once  for  the  clergyman  he  had  sought 
out   so   hurriedly   at  the  rectory  in   Second 
Avenue  that  day  when,  to  outwit  his  uncle- 
black  the  hour! — he  had  taken  Juno  to  wife. 

"  I  know  him  not,"  said  Juno,  turning  to 
322 


Two  Troublesome  Wedding  Gifts 

Signor  Di  Bello,  who  had  dropped  into  a 
chair.  But  her  game  of  bluff  was  lost.  "  Go  ! " 
the  grocer  said  to  her,  pointing  to  the  door. 

She  moved  to  the  threshold,  turned 
about,  spat  into  the  room,  and  said,  "  May 
you  all  die  cross-eyed!" — a  Neapolitan  fig- 
ure that  means  "  Be  hanged  to  you  ! "  since 
the  gallows  bird  squints  when  the  noose 
tightens.  Then  she  rustled  downstairs, 
mindful  of  her  purple  skirts.  Bertino  would 
have  been  at  her  heels  but  for  Carolina,  who 
caught  his  arm. 

"  Wait,"  she  whispered.  "  This  is  not 
the  time  or  place." 

"  No  matter ! "  he  cried,  shaking  off  her 
hold.  "  She  shall  pay,  she  shall  pay  !" 

The  sight  of  Juno's  yellow  boots  on  the 
staircase  served  to  quiet  the  troubled  parlour 
for  a  brief  moment,  the  people  thinking  that 
the  bride  and  groom  were  coming  at  last. 
But  she  had  seen  the  stiletto  in  her  hus- 
band's eye,  and  was  out  of  the  door,  into  the 
waiting  coupe",  and  driving  off  at  high  speed 
before  the  first  families  had  wholly  grasped 
323 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

the  scandalous  fact.  Next  moment  there 
was  another  flying  exit,  and  Bertino  went 
tearing  after  the  carriage.  This  was  the  sig- 
nal for  unheard-of  insults  to  Casa  Di  Bello. 
The  men  set  up  a  sirocco  of  hisses,  and  the 
women  shouted  mock  bravoes  for  the  twice- 
brideless  groom.  During  the  uproar  Ales- 
sandro  the  Macaroni  Presser  led  a  push-and- 
grab  attack  on  a  side  table  heaped  with  the 
kaleidoscopic  dainties  with  which  Mulberry 
loves  to  tickle  its  eye  as  well  as  its  gullet. 

"  Dio  tremendo  !  "  whimpered  Signor  Di 
Bello,  the  tumult  downstairs  assailing  his 
ears.  "  What  a  disgrace  !  what  a  disgrace  ! " 

It  was  Carolina's  cue,  and  she  snapped  it 
up.  In  a  few  quick  words  she  unmasked 
the  marital  climax  her  drama  was  meant  to 
produce. 

"  Disgrace  ?"  she  said.  "  What  need  of 
disgrace,  my  brother  ?  Are  not  the  guests 
here,  is  the  feast  not  waiting,  also  the  priest, 
and  the  bride  ready  ?  " 

"The  bride?" 

"  Yes,  and  one  that  is  worth  a  hundred 
324 


Two  Troublesome  Wedding  Gifts 

—nay,  a  thousand — of  the  baggage  that  you 
have  lost ;  the  bride  that  I  have  brought  you 
all  the  way  from  Cardinali.  Hear  those 
cattle  below,  how  they  bellow  and  stamp  on 
your  name  !  But  my  bride  can  shut  their 
ugly  mouths.  Here  is  the  young  and  sym- 
pathetic Marianna." 

She  turned  slightly  and  beckoned  Mari- 
anna to  her  side,  but  the  girl  remained  where 
she  was,  hand  in  hand  with  Armando. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Marianna,  recoiling. 

"  Bah  !  She  is  young,  my  brother,  and 
does  not  know  what  she  wants.  Can't  you 
see  that  if  you  are  not  married  at  once  the 
colony  will  always  despise  you  ?  Never  again 
shall  you  hold  up  your  head." 

"  But  the  people  will  know  just  the  same 
that  I  have  been  put  in  a  sack,"  groaned  Di 
Bella 

"  Listen,"  said  Carolina,  putting  a  finger 
beside  her  nose  shrewdly.  "  Those  people 
are  fools.  They  will  believe  anything  you 
say,  if  only  you  go  before  them  with  a  bride. 
Let  it  be  one  of  your  famous  jokes.  A  little 
325 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

surprise  you  have  prepared  for  your  dear 
friends.  Naturally,  they  had  you  betrothed 
to  the  wrong  woman,  for  that  was  all  a  part 
of  the  joke.  You  laugh  at  them  then. 
You  laugh  last.  How  silly  they  will  feel ! 
What  merriment  !  -  Ah  !  they  will  say  it  is 
Signor  Di  Bello's  grandest  joke  ! " 

"  By  the  stars  of  heaven,  I  will ! "  cried 
the  grocer. — "  Here,  my  pretty  Marianna, 
do  you  wish  to  be  a  happy  wife  ?  " 

"Yes,"  the  girl  answered,  nestling  closer 
to  Armando,  "  but — but  not  yours." 

The  priest,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
shook  his  sides. 

"  You  must  be  his  !  "  said  Carolina,  catch- 
ing hold  of  her  arm  and  striving  to  drag 
her  away  from  Armando. 

"  She  shall  not  ! "  cried  the  sculptor, 
placing  an  arm  about  Marianna,  authority 
in  his  eye  and  voice.  "  Take  off  your  hand. 
No  one  else  shall  have  her." 

"  Bravo  ! "  exclaimed    Signor   Di    Bello. 
"  Let  the  pigs  squeal.     I  am  not  a  man  to 
marry  a  girl  against  her  will." 
326 


Two  Troublesome  Wedding  Gifts 

Carolina's  colour  ran  the  scale  of  red  and 
white,  her  fingers  writhed,  and  her  eyes  set 
upon  Armando's  curling  hair.  She  saw  the 
curtain  ringing  down  on  her  self-serving 
drama,  and  the  cherished  denouement  left 
out.  In  her  fury  she  would  have  tested 
the  roots  of  the  sculptor's  locks,  but  the 
priest  stepped  between  them,  and  raised  his 
hand. 

"  Signorina,"  he  said,  his  voice  a  distinct 
note  of  calm  above  the  storm  below,  "if 
you  sincerely  desire  to  save  your  brother 
from  the  contempt  of  his  neighbours  it  may 
be  done  better  by  the  union  of  these  young 
hearts  than  by  tearing  them  asunder.  Let 
us  consider.  You  speak  of  the  merry  jest." 
Here  the  good  man's  eyes  twinkled  his  zest  in 
the  wholesome  trick  to  be  played.  "  Would 
it  not  be  a  greater  joke  if  the  people  found 
that  they  had  betrothed  not  alone  the 
wrong  bride,  but  the  wrong  groom  as  well ; 
in  fact,  had  come  to  the  marriage  of  one 
couple  only  to  find  another  walk  into  the 
parlour  with  the  priest  ?  " 
327 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

For  a  moment  no  one  caught  his  mean- 
ing. Then  he  went  on,  with  equal  counte- 
nance :  "  What  I  mean  is  that  you  silence 
the  tongue  of  scandal  by  having  a  wedding 
at  once,  with  this  pair  of  turtle-doves  as  the 
bride  and  groom." 

"  Bravo ! "  Signer  Di  Bello  whooped, 
grasping  the  priest's  hand.  "  Indeed  a  fa- 
mous joke.  I  will  tell  them  that  it  was  all 
fun  about  my  getting  married  ;  that  it  was 
to  be  my  foster  niece  and  her  sweetheart 
all  the  time.  Ah,  the  side-splitting  joke  !  " 

"  Come,  then,"  said  the  priest,  without 
waiting  for  Carolina's  approval ;  and  the 
joyous  Armando  and  Marianna,  with  Signor 
Di  Bello  last  in  the  procession,  followed  him 
to  the  parlour. 

Carolina  did  not  go  downstairs,  but 
turned  into  her  sanctum,  and  with  flooding 
eyes  looked  out  on  San  Patrizio's  graveyard. 
She  heard  the  muffled  outburst  of  wonder 
that  greeted  the  bridal  twain  in  the  parlour, 
and  alert  was  her  ear  to  the  growing  quiet 
that  became  silence  when  the  priest  began 
128 


o- 


Two  Troublesome  Wedding  Gifts 

the  nuptial  rites.  Soon  the  merriment  of 
the  feast  rang  beneath  her  feet.  Plainly  the 
lying  joke  was  a  great  success.  Ah  !  what 
a  fine  vendetta  it  would  be  to  go  down  there 
and  tell  them  all  the  truth — even  now  while 
her  brother  was  cracking  walnuts  on  his 
head  and  making  the  table  roar !  But  no ; 
of  strife  she  was  weary.  She  longed  for 
peace — for  the  peace  that  lay  beyond  that 
gray  forest  of  mortuary  shafts ;  the  peace 
beyond  that  rectory  door,  to  which  the  latch 
string  beckoned  and  a  soft  voice,  clear  above 
the  revelry,  seemed  calling:  " Perpetua, per- 
petua,  riposo,  pace." 

When  Armando,  with  one  hundred  dol- 
lars in  his  pocket — the  grateful  tribute  of 
Signor  Di  Bello — went  to  Banca  Tomato 
to  buy  two  second-class  tickets  for  Genoa, 
the  banker  led  him  behind  the  nankeen  sail 
—sewed  together  again  by  Bridget — and 
whispered  that  Bertino  would  be  on  the 
same  ship  in  the  steerage. 

"  Did  she  pay  ?"  asked  the  sculptor. 
22  329 


The  Last  Lady  of  Mulberry 

"  No,  not  all :  a  cut  on  the  cheek ;  a 
clumsy  thrust,  dealt  in  a  dark  alley,  where 
he  waited  for  her  all  night.  But  mark  you, 
the  fool  wanted  to  stay,  to  go  back — to 
make  her  pay  more — to  pay  all.  He  is  not 
satisfied  ;  and  in  truth  I  do  not  blame  him. 
She  ought  to  pay  all." 

"Si—  all." 

"  But  how  could  he  go  back  to  her, 
where  a  dozen  man-hunters  are  waiting  ? 
They  have  been  here,  the  loons,  to  see  if 
he  bought  a  ticket.  They  will  not  find  him. 
He  will  stay  where  he  is  until — until  it  is 
time  to  go  on  the  ship.  Ah,  my  friend, 
it  was  grand  trouble  to  make  him  do  this. 
He  was  for  going  back  to  her — to  the  man- 
hunters.  But  I  gave  him  the  light  of  a  wise 
proverb,  and  he  saw  :  Better  an  egg  to-day 
than  a  hen  to-morrow." 


330 


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polygamist  to  Congress.  .  .  .  Miss  Dougall  has  handled  her  subject  with  consummate 
skill.T  .  .  She  has  rightly  seen  that  this  man's  life  contained  splendid  material  for  a 
historical  novel.  She  has  taken  no  unwarranted  liberties  with  the  truth,  and  has  suc- 
ceeded in  furnishing  a  story  whose  scope  broadens  with  each  succeeding  chapter  until 
the  end."  —  New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  Mornionism  is  not  ordinarily  regarded  as  capable  of  romantic  treatment,  but  in 
the  hands  of  Miss  Dougall  it  has  yielded  results  which  are  calculated  to  attract  the 
general  public  as  well  as  the  student  of  psychology.  .  .  .  Miss  Dougall  has  handled  a 
difficult  theme  with  conspicuous  delicacy  ;  the  most  sordid  details  of  the  narrative  are 
redeemed  by  the  glamour  of  her  style,  her  analysis  of  die  strangely  mixed  character  of 
the  prophet  is  remarkable  for  its  detachment  and  impartiality,  while  in  Susannah  Halsey 
she  has  given  us  a  really  beautiful  study  of  nobly  compassionate  womanhood.  We  cer- 
tainly know  of  no  more  illuminative  commentary  on  the  rise  of  this  extraordinary  sect 
than  is  furnished  by  Miss  Dougall's  novel  "—London  Spectator. 

"  Miss  Dougall  may  be  congratulated  both  on  her  choice  of  a  subject  for  her  new 
book  and  on  her  remarkably  able  and  interesting  treatment  of  it.  ...  A  fascinating 
story,  which  is  even  more  remarkable  and  more  fascinating  as  a  psychological  study.  "— 
The  Scotsman. 


MADONNA    OF  A  DAY.      121110.      Cloth, 
$1.00  ;  paper,  50  cents. 

"  An  entirely  unique  story.  Alive  with  incident  and  related  in  a  fresh  and  capti- 
vating style."  —  Philadelphia  Press. 

"  A  novel  that  stands  quite  by  itself,  and  that  in  theme  as  well  as  in  artistic  merit 
should  make  a  very  strong  appeal  to  the  mind  of  a  sympathetic  reader."  —  Boston 
Beacon. 


MERMAID.      12010.      Cloth,   $1.00  ;    paper, 
50  cents. 

"  The  author  of  this  novel  has  the  gift  of  contrivance  and  the  skill  to  sustain  the 
interest  of  a  plot  through  all  its  development  '  The  Mermaid  '  is  an  odd  and  interest- 
ing story."  —  New  York  Times. 


T 


"HE  ZEIT-GEIST.     i6mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  novels." — New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 


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BOOKS    BY    GRAHAM    TRAVERS. 

J/f  WINDYHAUGH.  A  Novel.  By  GRAHAM  TRAVERS, 
*  *      author  of  "  Mona  Maclean,  Medical  Student,"  "  Fellow  Travel- 
lers," etc.     I2mo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

" '  Windyhaugh'  shows  an  infinitely  more  mature  skill  and  more  subtle  humor  than 
'Mona  Maclean '  and  a  profounder  insight  into  life.  The  psychology  in  Dr.  Todd's 
remarkable  book  is  all  of  the  right  kind ;  and  there  is  not  in  English  fiction  a  more 
careful  and  penetrating  analysis  of  the  evolution  of  a  woman's  mind  than  is  given  in 
Wilhelmina  Galbraith ;  but  '  Windyhaugh '  is  not  a  book  in  which  there  is  only  one 
'star' and  a  crowd  of  'supers.'  Every  character  is  limned  with  a  conscientious  care 
that  bespeaks  the  true  artist,  and  the  analytical  interest  of  the  novel  is  rigorously  kept 
in  its  proper  place  and  is  only  one  element  in  a  delightful  story.  It  is  a  supremely 
interesting  and  wholesome  book,  and  in  an  age  when  excellence  of  technique  has 
reached  a  remarkable  level,  'Windyhaugh'  compels  admiration  for  its  brilliancy  of 
style.  Dr.  Todd  paints  on  a  large  canvas,  but  she  has  a  true  sense  of  proportion." — 
Blackiuood '.r  Magazine. 

"  For  truth  to  life,  for  adherence  to  a  clear  line  of  action,  for  arrival  at  the  point  to- 
ward which  it  has  aimed  from  the  first,  such  a  book  as  '  Windyhaugh  '  must  be  judged 
remarkable.  There  is  vigor  and  brilliancy.  It  is  a  book  that  must  be  read  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  and  that  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  have  read." — Boston  "Journal. 

"  Its  easy  style,  its  natural  characters,  and  its  general  tone  of  earnestness  assure  its 
author  a  high  rank  among  contemporary  novelists." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  We  can  cordially  eulogize  the  spendid  vitality  of  the  work,  its  brilliancy,  its  pathos, 
its  polished  and  crystalline  style,  and  its  remarkable  character-painting. " — New  York 
Home  Journal. 

ON  A  MACLEAN,  Medical  Student.     lamo,  paper, 
50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 
"  A  high-bred  comedy." — New  York  Times. 

" '  Mona  Maclean  '  is  a  bright,  healthful,  winning  story." — New  York  Mail  and 
Express. 

"Mona  is  a  very  attractive  person,  and  her  story  is  decidedly  well  told."— San 
Francisco  A  rgonaut. 

"  A  pleasure  in  store  for  you  if  you  have  not  read  this  volume.  The  author  has 
given  us  a  thoroughly  natural  series  of  events,  and  drawn  her  characters  like  an  artist. 
It  is  the  story  of  a  woman's  struggles  with  her  own  soul.  She  is  a  woman  of  resource, 
a  strong  woman,  and  her  career  is  interesting  from  beginning  to  end." — New  York 
Herald. 

CELLO W  TRAVELLERS.     121110,  paper,  50  cents; 
•*-         cloth,  $1.00. 

"  The  stories  are  well  told ;  the  literary  style  is  above  the  average,  and  the 
character  drawing  is  to  be  particularly  praised.  .  .  .  Altogether,  the  little  book  is  a 
model  of  its  kind,  and  its  reading  will  give  pleasure  to  people  of  taste." — Boston 
Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  '  Fellow  Travellers '  is  a  collection  of  very  brightly  written  tales,  all  dealing,  as 
the  title  implies,  with  the  mutual  relations  of  people  thrown  together  casually  while 
traveling." — London  Saturday  Review. 


M 


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BOOKS    BY   ALLEN    RAINE* 

Each,  J2mo,  cloth,  $1.00;  paper,  50  cents. 

Garthowen:  A  Welsh  Idyl. 

"Wales  has  long  waited  for  her  novelist,  but  he  seems  to  have  come  at 
last  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Allen  Raine,  who  has  at  once  proved  himself  a  worthy 
interpreter  and  exponent  of  the  romantic  spirit  of  his  country." — London  Daily 
Mail. 

By  Berwen  Banks. 

"  Mr.  Raine  enters  into  the  lives  and  traditions  of  the  people,  and  herein 
lies  the  charm  of  his  stories." — Chicago  Tribune. 

" Interesting  from  the  beginning,  and  grows  more  so  as  it  proceeds." — 
San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

"  It  has  the  same  grace  of  style,  strength  of  description,  and  dainty  sweet- 
jie»s  of  its  predecessors." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

Torn  Sails. 

"  It  is  a  little  idyl  of  humble  life  and  enduring  love,  laid  bare  before  us, 
very  real  and  pure,  which  in  its  telling  shows  us  some  strong  points  of  Welsh 
character — the  pride,  the  hasty  temper,  the  quick  dying  out  of  wrath.  .  .  .  We 
call  this  a  well-written  story,  interesting  alike  through  its  romance  and  its 
glimpses  into  another  life  than  ours." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"Allen  Raine's  work  is  in  the  right  direction  and  worthy  of  all  honor." 
— Boston  Budget. 

Mifanwy:  A  Welsh  Singer. 

"  Simple  in  all  its  situations,  the  story  is  worked  up  in  that  touching  and 
quaint  strain  which  never  grows  wearisome  no  matter  how  often  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  love  are  introduced.  It  rings  true,  and  does  not  tax  the  imagi- 
nation."— Boston  Herald. 

"  One  of  the  most  charming  tales  that  has  come  to  us  of  late." — Brooklyn 
Eagle. 

D.     APPLETON     AND      COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


BY  ELEANOR   STUART. 

Averages. 

fA  Novel  of  Modern  New  York.      i2mo.     Cloth, 

$  i.  50'. 

"To  picture  a  scheming  woman  who  is  also  attractive  and 
even  lovable  is  not  an  easy  task.  .  .  .  To  have  made  such  a 
woman  plausible  and  real  in  the  midst  of  modern  New  York  life 
is  what  Miss  Stuart  has  achieved  in  this  novel.  And  the  other 
characters  reach  a  similar  reality.  They  are  individuals  and  not 
types,  and,  moreover,  they  are  not  literary  echoes.  For  a  writer 
to  manage  this  assortment  of  original  characters  with  that  cool 
deliberation  which  keeps  aloof  from  them,  but  remorselessly 
pictures  them,  is  a  proof  of  literary  insight  and  literary  skill.  It 
takes  work  as  well  as  talent.  The  people  of  the  story  are  real, 
plausible,  modern  creatures,  with  the  fads  and  weaknesses  of 
to-day."— M  T.  Life. 

"  The  strength  of  the  book  is  its  entertaining  pictures  of 
human  nature  and  its  shrewd,  incisive  observations  upon  the 
social  problems,  great  and  small,  which  present  themselves  in  the 
complex  life  of  society  in  the  metropolis.  Those  who  are  fond 
of  dry  wit,  a  subtle  humor,  and  what  Emerson  calls  f  a  philos- 
ophy of  insight  and  not  of  tradition,'  will  find  'Averages'  a 
novel  to  their  taste.  .  .  .  There  are  interesting  love  episodes 
and  clever,  original  situations.  An  author  capable  of  such  work 
is  to  be  reckoned  with.  She  has  in  her  the  root  of  the  mat- 
ter."— N.  T.  Mail  and  Express. 

Stonepastures. 

I2mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 

"  The  story  is  strongly  written,  there  being  a  decided  Bronte 
flavor  about  its  style  and  English.  It  is  thoroughly  interesting 
and  extremely  vivid  in  its  portrayal  of  actual  life." — Boston 
Courier. 

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BY  ELLEN   THORNEYCROFT   FOWLER. 
A    DOUBLE   THREAD.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  excellence  of  her  writing  makes  .  .  .  her  book  delightful  read- 
ing. She  is  genial  and  sympathetic  without  being  futile,  and  witty  without 
being  cynical." — Literature,  London,  Eng. 

"Will  attract  a  host  of  readers.  .  .  .  The  great  charm  about  Miss 
Fowler's  writing  is  its  combination  of  brilliancy  and  kindness.  .  .  .  Miss 
Fowler  has  all  the  arts.  She  disposes  of  her  materials  in  a  perfectly  work- 
manlike manner.  Her  tale  is  well  proportioned,  everything  is  in  its  place, 
and  the  result  is  thoroughly  pleasing." — Claudius  Clear,  in  the  British 
Weekly. 

"  An  excellent  novel  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  and  Miss  Ellen  Thorney 
croft  Fowler  is  to  be  congratulated  on  having  made  a  most  distinct  and 
momentous  advance." — London  Telegraph. 

"  We  have  learned  to  expect  good  things  from  the  writer  of  '  Concerning 
Isabel  Carnaby,'  and  we  are  not  disappointed.  Her  present  venture  has  all 
the  cleverness  and  knowledge  of  life  that  distinguished  its  predecessor." — 
London  Daily  News. 

/CONCERNING  ISABEL   CARNABY.     No.  252, 

Appletons*  Town  and  Country  Library.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $  i.oo  ; 
paper,  50  cents. 

"  Rarely  does  one  find  such  a  charming  combination  of  wit  and  tender- 
ness, of  brilliancy,  and  reverence  for  the  things  that  matter.  ...  It  is  bright 
without  being  flippant,  tender  without  being  mawkish,  and  as  joyous  and  as 
wholesome  as  sunshine.  The  characters  are  closely  studied  and  clearly 
limned,  and  they  are  created  by  one  who  knows  human  nature.  ...  It 
would  be  hard  to  find  its  superior  for  all-around  excellence.  .  .  .  No  one 
•who  reads  it  will  regret  it  or  forget  it." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  For  brilliant  conversations,  epigrammatic  bits  of  philosophy,  keenness 
of  wit,  and  full  insight  into  human  nature,  '  Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby '  is 
a  remarkable  success." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  An  excellent  novel,  clever  and  witty  enough  to  be  very  amusing,  and 
serious  enough  to  provide  much  food  for  thought." — London  Daily  Tele- 
graph. 


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TWO   SUCCESSFUL   AMERICAN   NOVELS. 

A  TITUDE  19°.  A  Romance  of  the  West  Indies  in 
the  Year  of  our  Lord  1820.  Being  a  faithful  account  and  true, 
of  the  painful  adventures  of  the  Skipper,  the  Bo's'n,  the  Smith, 
the  Mate,  and  Cynthia.  By  Mrs.  SCHUYLER  CROWNINSHIELD. 
Illustrated.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  '  Latitude  19°  '  is  a  novel  of  incident,  of  the  open  air,  of  the  sea,  the  shore,  the 
mountain  eyrie,  and  of  breathing,  living  entities,  who  deal  with  Nature  at  first  hand.  .  .  . 
The  adventures  described  are  peculiarly  novel  and  interesting.  .  .  .  Packed  with 
incidents,  infused  with  humor  and  wit,  and  faithful  to  the  types  introduced,  this  book 
will  surely  appeal  to  the  large  audience  already  won,  and  beget  new  friends  among 
those  who  believe  in  fiction  that  is  healthy  without  being  maudlin,  and  is  strong  with- 
out losing  the  truth." — New  York  Herald. 

"  A  story  filled  with  rapid  and  exciting  action  from  the  first  page  to  the  last.  A 
fecundity  of  invention  that  never,  lags,  and  a  judiciously  used  vein  of  humor." — Tht 
Critic. 

"  A  volume  of  deep,  undeniable  charm.  A  unique  book  from  a  fresh,  sure,  vigorous 
pen." — Boston  Journal. 

"  Adventurous  and  romantic  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  exacting  reader.  .  .  . 
Abounds  in  situations  which  make  the  blood  run  cold,  and  yet,  full  of  surprises  as  it  is, 
one  is  continually  amazed  by  the  plausibility  of  the  main  incidents  of  the  narrative. 
...  A  very  successful  effort  to  portray  the  sort  of  adventures  that  might  have  taken 
place  in  the  West  Indies  seventy-five  or  eighty  years  ago.  .  .  .  Very  entertaining  with 
its  dry  humor." — Boston  Herald. 


A 


HERALD  OF  THE  WEST.  An  American 
Story  of  1811-1815.  By  J.  A.  ALTSHELER,  author  of  "A 
Soldier  of  Manhattan  "  and  "  The  Sun  of  Saratoga."  I2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  '  A  Herald  of  the  West '  is  a  romance  of  our  history  which  has  not  been  surpassed 
in  dramatic  force,  vivid  coloring,  and  historical  interest.  ...  In  these  days  when  the 
flush  of  war  has  only  just  passed,  the  book  ought  to  find  thousands  of  readers,  for  it 
teaches  patriotism  without  intolerance,  and  it  shows,  what  the  war  with  Spain  has 
demonstrated  anew,  the  power  of  the  American  icople  when  they  are  deeply  roused  by 
some  great  wrong." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  The  book  throughout  is  extremely  well  written.  It  is  condensed,  vivid,  pictu- 
resque. ...  A  rattling  good  story,  and  unrivaled  in  fiction  for  its  presentation  of  the 
American  feeling  toward  England  during  our  second  conflict." — Boston  Herald. 

"  Holds  the  attention  continuously.  .  .  .  The  book  abounds  in  thrilling  attractions. 
...  It  is  a  solid  and  dignified  acquisition  to  the  romantic  literature  of  our  own  coun- 
try, built  around  facts  and  real  persons." — Chicago  Times-Herald. 

"  In  a  style  that  is  strong  and  broad,  the  author  of  this  timely  novel  takes  up  a 
nascent  period  of  our  national  history  and  founds  upon  it  a  story  of  absorbing  interest." 
— Philadelphia  Item. 

"  Mr.  Altsheler  has  given  us  an  accurate  as  well  as  picturesque  portrayal  of  the 
social  and  political  conditions  which  prevailed  in  the  republic  in  the  era  made  famous 
by  the  second  war  with  Great  Britain." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 


D.  APPLETON  AND   COMPANY.  NEW  YORK. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


A 


BY  A.  CONAN   DOYLE. 
Uniform  edition.    lamo.    Cloth,  $1.50  per  volume. 

DUET,  WITH  AN  OCCASIONAL  CHORUS. 

"  Charming  is  the  one  word  to  describe  this  volume  adequately.  Dr.  Doyle's 
crisp  style  and  his  rare  wit  and  refined  humor,  utilized  with  cheerful  art  that  is  perfect 
of  its  kind,  fill  these  chapters  with  joy  and  gladness  for  the  reader." — Philadelphia 
Press. 

"  Bright,  brave,  simple,  natural,  delicate.  It  is  the  most  artistic  and  most  original 
thing  that  its  author  has  done.  .  .  .  We  can  heartily  recommend  '  A  Duet '  to  all  classes 
of  readers.  It  is  a  good  book  to  put  into  the  hands  of  the  young  of  either  sex.  It  will 
interest  the  general  reader,  and  it  should  delight  the  critic,  for  it  is  a  work  of.art.  This 
story  taken  with  the  best  of  his  previous  work  gives  Dr.  Doyle  a  very  high  place  in 
modern  letters." — Chicago  Times-Herald. 

T  TNCLE  BERN  AC.     A  Romance  of  the  Empire. 

"Simple,  clear,  and  well  defined.  .  .  .  Spirited  in  movement  all  the  way 
through.  ...  A  fine  example  of  clear  analytical  force.  "—Boston  Herald. 


T 


HE  EXPLOITS  OF  BRIGADIER  GERARD. 

A  Romance  of  the  Life  of  a  Typical  Napoleonic  Soldier. 

"  Good,  stirring  tales  are  they.  .  .  .  Remind  one  of  those  adventures  indulged  in 
by  '  The  Three  Musketeers.'  .  .  .  Written  with  a  dash  and  swing  that  here  and  th«re 
carry  one  away." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

DODNEY  STONE. 

•*-    *•      "  A  notable  and  very  brilliant  work  of  genius." — London  Speaker. 

"  Dr.  Doyle's  novel  is  crowded  with  an  amazing  amount  of  incident  and  excite- 
ment. .  .  .  He  does  not  write  history,  but  shows  us  the  human  side  of  his  great  men, 
living  and  moving  in  an  atmosphere  charged  with  the  spirit  of  the  hard-living,  hard- 
fighting  Anglo-Saxon." — New  York  Critic. 


R 


OUND  THE  RED  LAMP. 

Being  Facts  and  Fancies  of  Medical  Life, 


"A  strikingly  realistic  and  decidedly  original  contribution  to  modern  literature.' 
Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 


T 


HE  STARK  MUNRO  LETTERS. 

Being  a  Series  of  Twelve  Letters  written  by  STARK  MUNRO,  M.  B., 
to  his  friend  and  former  fellow-student,  Herbert  Swanborough,  of 
Lowell,  Massachusetts,  during  the  years  1881-1884. 

"  Cullingworth,  ...  a  much  more  interesting  creation  than  Sherlock  Holmes,  and 
I  pray  Dr.  Doyle  to  give  us  more  of  him." — Richard  le  Gallitnne,  in  the  London 
Star. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 
BY  S.  R.  CROCKETT. 

Uniform  edition.     Each,  lamo,  cloth,  $1.50. 

'1THE    STANDARD    BEARER.      An    Historical 

•*•       Romance. 

"  Mr.  Crockett's  book  is  distinctly  one  of  the  books  of  the  year.  Five  months  of 
1898  have  passed  without  bringing  to  the  reviewers'  desk  anything  to  be  compared 
with  it  in  beauty  of  description,  convincing  characterization,  absorbing  plot  and  humor- 
ous appeal.  The  freshness  and  sweet  sincerity  of  the  tale  are  most  invigorating,  and 
that  the  book  will  be  very  much  read  there  is  no  possible  doubt." — Boston  Budget. 

"  The  book  will  move  to  tears,  provoke  to  laughter,  stir  the  blood,  and  evoke  hero- 
isms of  history,  making  the  reading  of  it  a  delight  and  the  memory  of  it  a  stimulus  and 
a  )oy"—New  York  Evangelist. 


L 


ADS'   LOVE.     Illustrated. 


"  It  seems  to  us  that  there  is  in  this  latest  product  much  of  the  realism  of  per- 
sonal experience.  However  modified  and  disguised,  it  is  hardly  possible  to  think  that 
the  writer's  personality  does  not  present  itself  in  Saunders  McQuhirr.  .  .  .  Rarely  has 
the  author  drawn  more  truly  from  life  than  in  the  cases  of  Nance  and  'the  Hempie"; 
never  more  typical  Scotsman  of  the  humble  sort  than  the  farmer  Peter  Chrystie." — 
London  A  thenceutn. 


c 


'LEG    KELLY,   ARAB    OF    THE    CITY.     His 

Progress  and  Adventures.     Illustrated. 

"A  masterpiece  which  Mark  Twain  himself  has  never  rivaled.  .  .  .  If  there  ever  was 
an  ideal  character  in  fiction  it  is  this  heroic  ragamuffin." — London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  In  no  one  of  his  books  does  Mr.  Crockett  give  us  a  brighter  or  more  graphic 
picture  of  contemporary  Scotch  life  than  in  'Cleg  Kelly.'  .  .  .  It  is  one  of  the  great 
books." — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 


B 


OG-MYRTLE  AND  PEAT.     Third  edition. 


"  Here  are  idyls,  epics,  dramas  of  human  life,  written  in  words  that  thrill  and 
burn.  .  .  .  Each  is  a  poem  that  has  an  immortal  flavor.  They  are  fragments  of  the 
author's  early  dreams,  too  bright,  too  gorgeous,  too  full  of  the  blood  of  rubies  and  the 
life  of  diamonds  to  be  caught  and  held  palpitating  in  expression's  grasp." — Boston 
Courier. 

"  Hardly  a  sketch  among  them  all  that  will  not  afford  pleasure  to  the  reader  for 
its  genial  humor,  artistic  local  coloring,  and  admirable  portrayal  of  character. " — Boston 
Home  Journal. 


T 


'HE  LILAC  SUNBONNET.     Eighth  edition. 


"  A  love  story,  pure  and  simple,  one  of  the  old  fashioned,  wholesome,  sun- 
shiny kind,  with  a  pure-minded,  sound-hearted  hero,  and  a  heroine  who  is  merely  a 
good  and  beautiful  woman;  and  if  any  other  love  story  half  so  sweet  has  been  written 
this  year  it  has  escaped  our  notice." — New  York  Times. 

"  The  general  conception  of  the  story,  the  motive  of  which  is  the  growth  of  love 
between  the  young  chief  and  heroine,  is  delineated  with  a  sweetness  and  a  freshness, 
a  naturalness  and  a  certainty,  which  places  '  The  Lilac  Sunbonnet '  among  the  best 
itories  of  the  time." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 


D.  APPLETON   AND   COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


BY     ALBERT     LEE. 

J2mo.    Cloth,  $1.00;  paper,  50  cents. 
IN  APPLETONS'  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY  LIBRARY. 

The  Gentleman  Pensioner. 

The  scene  of  this  admirable  historical  romance 
is  laid  in  the  tumultuous  England  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  at  the  time  when  the  plots  of  the  parti- 
sans of  Mary  Stuart  against  Elizabeth  seemed  to 
be  approaching  a  culmination.  The  hero,  Queen 
Elizabeth's  confidential  messenger,  has  a  trust  to 
execute  which  involves  a  thrilling  series  of  adven- 
tures. This  stirring  romance  has  been  compared 
to  "A  Gentleman  of  France,"  and  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  no  reader  will  find  in  its  pages  any  reason  for 
flagging  interest  or  will  relinquish  the  book  until 
the  last  page  has  been  reached. 

The  Key  of  the  Holy  House. 

A  Romance  of  Old  Antwerp. 

"  A  romance  of  Antwerp  in  the  days  of  the 
Spanish  oppression.  Mr.  Lee  handles  it  in  vigor- 
ous fashion." — London  Spectator. 

"  This  is  a  fascinating  specimen  of  the  historical 
romance   at   its   best,  the   romance   which   infuses 
energetic   life    into    the    dry  facts    of  history. "- 
Philadelphia  Press. 

D.     APPLETON      AND     COMPANY,     NEW    YORK. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


fltU'U  LU-UKU 

«S       MAY  2  Z  1972 


Form  L9-Series  444 


A     000  097  955     9 


